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 JOHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS, M.D., 
 
 SELECTED AND EDITED, 
 
 WITH AN INTRODUCTORY MEMOIR, 
 
 BY HIS SON. 
 
 LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 BRISTOL: I. ARROWSMITH. 
 
 1871.
 
 EDITOR'S PREFACE. 
 
 IN preparing the following Volume for the Press I 
 have found it difficult to make such a selection of 
 my father's works as should interest the general 
 public, and at the same time do justice to his 
 professional and scientific reputation. To combine 
 in one book a Treatise on ^Esthetics, with a Course 
 of Lectures on Headache, or an Analytical Essay 
 upon Tetanus would have been impossible. The 
 only course open to me, therefore, was to omit all 
 strictly medical articles, confining myself to works 
 of pure literature, and to such scientific studies as 
 had a general philosophical or social interest. I 
 am aware that by following this principle of selection 
 I have rendered the Volume less valuable to phy- 
 sicians ; but I have the satisfaction of reflecting that 
 more public attention may be attracted to the 
 products of a singularly versatile and elegant, as
 
 VI. PEEFACE. 
 
 well as powerful and scientific intellect. The few 
 Poems and Translations inserted at the end of the 
 Volume have been selected from a great number 
 of equal merit, as specimens of the lighter literary 
 recreations which occupied the intervals of leisure 
 in a very laborious life. 
 
 CLIFTON, July 1871.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 MEMOIR ix 
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY : 
 
 Introduction - 1 
 
 Sensational Beauty - - 1 
 
 Intellectual Beauty - 31 
 
 Moral Beauty ... 33 
 
 Emotional Beauty , . . 34 
 
 Ideal Beauty 39 
 
 Uses of Beauty -- - 43 
 
 LECTURE ON WASTE .... - 49 
 
 TEN YEARS 72 
 
 KNOWLEDGE ......... 92 
 
 LIFE OF DR. PRICHARD - . 116 
 
 SCIENTIFIC STUDIES. 
 
 y/y.r" ( 
 
 SLEEP AND DREAMS '? - - - 145 
 
 APPARITIONS (La> * r . . . - - - 209 
 
 THE KELATIONS. BETWEEN MIND AND MUSCLE '$ '-/ 265 
 
 HABIT l$*"\ ;. 293 
 
 CRIMINAL RESPONSIBILITY m EELATION TO INSANITY - J ^ J 325
 
 Vlll. CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE. 
 
 ON THE ^OCIAL & POLITICAL ASPECTS 
 
 OF .EDICINE. 
 
 ** 
 
 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE 
 
 THE HEALTH OF CLIFTOIC /o&*| .... 350 
 
 MEDICAL EVIDENCE IN KELATION TO STATE MEDICINE - ^ -^ 372 
 
 ADDRESS ON HEALTH - 'ori ...... 382 
 
 f 
 
 OEMS. 
 
 A PHILOSOPHER'S PSALM - - 401 
 
 VERSES IN THE VALE OF BEDDGELERT - - - 403 
 
 SHADOWS - ---._. 404 
 
 THE BROTHERS - - 406 
 
 Ex EGO IN ARCADIA vrxi - 408 
 
 PROMETHEUS - - . - - 409 
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 FROM MIMNERMUS - - - - ... . 410 
 
 FROM THEOGNIS - -- . . . . . . 411 
 
 FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY - - - - - 412 
 
 FROM HORACE 414 
 
 FROM LUCRETIUS- ---.._._ 416 
 
 FROM MARTIAL 416
 
 MEMOIR 
 
 18071831. 
 
 OHN ADDINGTON SYMONDS was born at Oxford on the 
 10th of April, 1807. His father, who belonged to a family of 
 ld- standing and respectability in *Shropshire and Warwick- 
 shire, had settled in that city as a medical practitioner after 
 marrying Miss Mary Williams, of a family established at Aston, 
 in the county of Oxford. This circumstance determined the 
 future career of his son, who received his earliest education 
 at Magdalen College School. There he showed such aptitude 
 for classical studies, and so strong a bent toward literature, that, 
 had it not been decided for him to pursue his father's profes- 
 sion, he would naturally have devoted his abilities to the Church, 
 or have become the Fellow of an Oxford College. The development 
 of his intellectual powers was rapid. At the age of sixteen, having 
 already made himself a fair Greek and Latin scholar, and laid the 
 foundation of those classical tastes which he retained through life, 
 he commenced the study of medicine, attending the anatomical 
 courses of Dr. Kidd, and the lectures on chemistry of Dr. Daubeny, 
 and acting meanwhile as dresser at the Kadcliffe Infirmary to Mr. 
 Hitchings. In 1825 he entered the University of Edinburgh, 
 
 * The immediate ancestors of Dr. Symonds had been settled for about a 
 century in Kidderminster, whither they had removed from Shrewsbury. They 
 claimed a common descent with the family of Symons or Symeon, of Pyrton, the 
 heiress of which branch married John Hampden.
 
 X. MEMOTE. 
 
 where he graduated as M.D. in 1828. At Edinburgh he wa& 
 distinguished among his fellow students for the union of literary 
 tastes and pursuits with an unflinching devotion to the studies of 
 his profession. The time that he could spare from science was spent 
 upon philosophy and poetry. While toiling night and day in the 
 fever wards of the hospital, or mastering by long hours of practice 
 and patient observation the then novel art of the stethoscope,* he 
 was among the first admirers of Shelley, and foremost in all dis- 
 cussions relating to elegant literature. Many pieces of poetry 
 composed by him at this period shew him to have been a master 
 of facile and vigorous versification. At the same time he neglected 
 neither the graver studies in pathology and anatomy which were 
 necessary for his professional training, nor literary reading of a more 
 robust and bracing type than poetry. The soundness of judgment 
 and logical precision with which he was eminently gifted by nature, 
 and the industry of research which made his diagnosis valuable in 
 all the more complicated cases of disease, were being confirmed and 
 exercised by the perusal of Bacon, Dugald Stewart, and Dr. Brown, 
 his three favourite philosophers. For this unusual combination 
 of philosophical and literary ability, with practical sagacity and 
 wisdom in the discovery and treatment of disease, he continued to 
 be celebrated through his lifetime, forming, as it were, a link between 
 his profession and the world of letters, and carrying on the tradition 
 of the Sydenhams and the Harvey s of whom England is justly 
 proud. 
 
 18311851. 
 
 But it was requisite that he should suppress as far as possible 
 the inclinations of his genius toward extraneous studies, and con- 
 centrate his powers upon the practice of medicine. Accordingly, 
 
 * I have often heard my father say that whatever skill in auscultation he pos- 
 sessed was due to his having learned the use of the stethoscope by original 
 experiment and observation, and not by tradition.
 
 EARLY LIFE IN BRISTOL. XI. 
 
 after taking his degree, he returned to Oxford, and took an active 
 part in his father's practice until 1831, when he removed to Bristol 
 at the instance of his great uncle, Mr. John Addington, of Ashley 
 Court, near that city. The whole country at that period was 
 agitated with the disturbances that attended the passing of the 
 Reform Bill It was a time at which political feuds raged high, 
 especially in Bristol, an essentially Tory city, provoked almost to 
 madness by the terror of its riots. Dr. Symonds was by connec- 
 tions and conviction a Liberal. In voting and in expressing his 
 opinions he did not depart from his principles, though, as a young 
 professional man, he had to fight an uphill way at first and to 
 conquer some political antagonism.* His talents, however, won for 
 him from the date of his first residence in Bristol an eminent 
 position among his brethren. He was soon elected Physician to the 
 General Hospital and Lecturer on Forensic Medicine at the Bristol 
 Medical School The latter post he exchanged in 1836 for the 
 Lectureship on the Practice of Medicine, which he held till 1845 ; 
 and in 1848, after resigning his place at the Hospital, in conse- 
 quence of the increase of his private practice, he was elected its 
 Honorary and Consulting Physician. 
 
 In 1834 Dr. Symonds married Harriet, the eldest daughter of 
 James Sykes, Esq., by whom he had five children, four of whom 
 survive.-f- His married life was but brief; for in 1844 his wife 
 died at the time when he had successfully ended the first stage in 
 his life's journey, and was looking forward to years of undiminished 
 activity but of less anxiety. With words so few and cold as these 
 it is best perhaps to pass over the great joy and the great sorrow 
 
 * He used to tell, in after life, that on voting at the first contested election after 
 he came to Bristol, an older physician than himself had vainly warned him that he 
 would destroy his professional prospects if he ventured to assert his right to think 
 for himself in politics. 
 
 t Edith Harriet, wife of Charles D. Cave, Esq., of Stpneleigh House, Clifton ; 
 Mary Isabella, wife of Sir Edward Strachey, Bart., of Stilton"" Court, Somerset- 
 shire; John Addington Symonds, of Clifton Hill House, Bristol; and Charlotte 
 Byron, wife of T. H. Green, Esq., of Balliol College, Oxford.
 
 Xll. MEMOIR. 
 
 of a man whose whole existence was one of unremitting energy 
 and noble toil. Happiness rarely comes to those who seek it eagerly 
 or hug it anxiously. Dr. Symonds was happy, in spite of what he 
 lost and never could forget, because he lived for duty. Those who 
 knew him best will understand that this is no merely conventional 
 panegyric, but the simple fact. 
 
 During the first years of his residence in Bristol, and before his 
 practice had become too engrossing, Dr. Symonds employed much 
 of his time in writing. He used to rise early in the morning, and 
 to gain two hours for composition before he began the routine of 
 the day with a breakfast at eight o'clock. The articles on " Age " 
 and " Death," which he contributed to the " Cyclopaedia of Anatomy 
 and Physiology," and that on " Tetanus," which was published in 
 the "Cyclopaedia of Practical Medicine," were written at this 
 period. So also were several articles composed for Dr. Tweedie's 
 " Library of Medicine," among which may be mentioned the 
 " Pathological Introduction," as well as various contributions to 
 " The British and Foreign Medical Eeview," and to the " Transac- 
 tions of the Provincial Medical Association." Most noticeable 
 among his reviews was a paper on " Carswell's Elementary Forms 
 of Disease," while memoirs on the " Cholera in Bristol in 1832," 
 on " The Medical Topography of Bristol," and on similar topics of 
 local interest, attracted much attention. Few of these compositions 
 have more than a professional or strictly scientific value. Yet such 
 of them as can be read with profit by the general student display 
 the forcible and polished style which Dr. Symonds commanded. 
 Some passages from the essays upon " Age " and " Death " are 
 eloquent in a literary sense, and might well have been included in 
 the volume to which this memoir serves as preface. The whole 
 series, if collected, would serve as a model for young writers upon 
 scientific subjects in respect of logical sequence of thought, lucid 
 arrangement, and propriety of diction. 
 
 Gradually, while the cares attending his first steps in profes- 
 sional life began to diminish, and he felt that he might again indulge
 
 LITERARY INTERESTS. Xlll. 
 
 his strong bias to literary study, new phases of intellectual interest 
 and enjoyment dawned upon him. The friendship of Dr. Prichard, 
 and the society of the Carpenter family, then united under one roof 
 in Bristol, had furnished him with sources of congenial recreation 
 and improvement ever since he first settled in Bristol. But 
 towards the year 1840,* the close intimacy which he formed and 
 maintained with Dr. G. D. Fripp, with Professor F. Newman, with 
 the Rev. Whitwell Elwin, with John Sterling, and with the 
 gifted and accomplished Mrs. Strachey, all then resident in 
 Bristol and Clifton, or frequent visitors to the neighbourhood, tended 
 to foster his old enthusiasm for pure literature, and to develop a 
 taste for art which had hitherto been dormant. It is not often that 
 a man past thirty finds a whole fresh field of intellectual enjoyment 
 suddenly expand before him. Yet this was the good fortune of 
 Dr. Symonds, who discovered at this period that pictures, statuary, 
 engravings, and all forms of art possessed the highest attraction 
 for his intellect. That no mere momentary fancy, but a deeply 
 seated instinct of his nature was satisfied by the study of the fine 
 arts, is evident from the rare sesthetical capacity displayed in the 
 first essay of the following selection. It Mas about (his time that 
 lie began to collect prints and books on art, forming a choice library 
 of reference and filling his portfolios, without, however, being bitten 
 by the mere collector's mania for raritiek I have often heard him 
 say how Sterling, walking rapidly along the Clifton streets with 
 neck slightly bent and swinging step, would hail his carriage to tell 
 or hear of some fresh acquisition in the shape of a line engravinf or 
 a copy of some coveted old volume. 
 
 The richness of Dr. Symonds' mind was shewn in nothino- more 
 than his aptitude for forming new tastes and cultivating faculties 
 which had lain undeveloped in his nature. In order to illustrate 
 this fertility and energy of intellect, I will cast a rapid glance over 
 
 I give this as an approximate date to mark the perio.'l I wish to indicate 
 though some of the friendships to which I allude were of earlier and some, perhaps, 
 of later formation.
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 the succession of his favourite pursuits from this time forward till 
 his death. After appropriating the beauties of Italian and Greek 
 art, he next engaged in the study of Egyptian antiquities. I can 
 well remember returning from Harrow, where I was at school, on 
 several successive holidays, to find him deep in Eosellini and 
 Bunsen, examining the chronology of Manetho, learning the names 
 and attributes of the several gods and of the royal dynasties, and 
 entering with interest into the minutest points relating to the 
 archaeology of Egyptian life. This course of enquiry was followed 
 by a scientific investigation of the mathematical laws of musical 
 proportion, on which he believed Beauty in all objects to be based. 
 Amid these studies he never neglected the classics, but always kept 
 one Greek or Latin author on his table, reading a few pages daily, 
 and frequently translating into verse the passages which struck him 
 most in his favourite poets. Later on, again, Ethnology and the 
 enquiry into the origins of humanity, claimed his chief attention. 
 He was not content with gaining a general familiarity with modern 
 discovery in these departments ; but he collected original authori- 
 ties and mastered the details of his subject. With the same 
 characteristic thoroughness and mental patience he occupied him- 
 self during the intervals of his last illness with the Topography 
 of Greece, taking the greatest possible interest in following the argu- 
 ments by which it has been attempted to identify the public 
 buildings of Athens. So far, it will be noticed that the special 
 subjects of his study were connected by threads of mutual depen- 
 dence and illustration. At the same time he never ceased to read 
 much in history, making himself, for example, a complete master of 
 the slightest details of the Parliamentary War, and shewing in his 
 study of Napoleon's and Wellington's campaigns a capacity for 
 understanding military science that won the applause of generals. 
 Among his friends he numbered Sir Thomas Brisbane, Sir Richard 
 Airey, Sir Abraham Roberts, and General MacMurdo. With them, 
 and with all officers who shared his interest in military history, he 
 was never tired of discussing the celebrated campaigns of the past
 
 ROUTINE OF LIFE. XV. 
 
 or in hearing of the conduct of our arms in the Crimea, in India, 
 and in the Peninsula. Amid these varied pursuits the Belles 
 Lettres were not neglected. Whenever he could spare an evening 
 for his children, he used to read aloud some poet or prose writer. 
 Shakspere, Charles Lamb, Tom Hood, Dickens, Southey, Scott, Sir 
 Thomas Browne, De Quincey, Crabbe, Wordsworth, Milton, Shelley, 
 Landor, Keats, Carlyle, Tennyson all had their turn, with many 
 more, to name whom would be endless ; for nothing was more 
 remarkable than the catholicity of his taste and the genuine appre- 
 ciation he had for every kind of excellence in literature. Among 
 all his favourites one was prominent, to whom, as years advanced, 
 he turned with ever increasing admiration Milton. 
 
 The life of a professional man established in a provincial city, 
 however full of interesting details to his immediate friends, does 
 not offer many points for commemoration in a biography. I shall, 
 therefore, pass over the remainder of the period which elapsed 
 between the settlement of Dr. Symonds in Bristol and his removal 
 to Clifton in 1851, with the general remark that this was a season 
 of unflagging labour, broken only by two flying visits to the Conti- 
 nent. Kising early, as we have seen, to write before breakfast, 
 breakfasting at eight, beginning the day's work at nine, continuing 
 it in various forms till a late dinner, leaving that again to resume 
 the round of visits, and often passing a portion of the night in 
 country journeys such is the unvarying treadmill at which a 
 physician in large practice has to toil, without the relief of those 
 vacations and occasional interruptions on which all other hard 
 workers depend for relaxation. 'That physicians should be able in 
 the midst of their employments to keep pace with the advance of 
 science and with current literature is a matter of astonishment. 
 Our wonder is increased when, in addition to extensive reading, we 
 find a man like Dr. Symonds able to devote a portion of his energy 
 to original literary work outside the sphere of his profession. It 
 was at this time that he wrote several of the papers included in the 
 following collection : the biographical notice of his friend Dr.-
 
 xvi. MEMOIR. 
 
 Prichard, the address on " Knowledge," the essay on " Apparitions," 
 the monograph on " Mind and Muscle," and the closely reasoned 
 lecture on " Habit." As the titles of these articles indicate, the 
 subjects chosen at this period by Dr. Symonds for public treatment 
 were still closely connected with his medical studies : but the 
 philosophical breadth and artistic elegance with which he handled 
 them, gave to these highly-finished essays the rank of independent 
 literature. 
 
 Throughout this period of his life Dr. Symonds continued 
 steadily to win the confidence and respect of his fellow citizens. 
 Xo scheme of public utility, whether connected with sanitary 
 matters or with education, was discussed without an appeal to his 
 judgment. Applying the same high standard of excellence to 
 public speaking as to literary composition, Dr. Symonds never 
 addressed an audience without striking his hearers by the propriety 
 and harmony of the language in which he conveyed solid thought 
 and careful reasoning. Minute attention to style as the means of 
 accurately expressing and of ornamenting thought was one of his 
 most marked characteristics. It is sometimes questioned whether 
 a writer or an orator may not gain force by the sacrifice of finish : 
 but this sacrifice he never in the slightest of his utterances made ; 
 so that in speaking and in writing he was known as the most 
 thoroughly urbane and polished master of classical English. At 
 his table conversation insensibly assumed a tone of greater dignity. 
 In his presence it was difficult to be rude or boisterous or vulgar. 
 Wherever he went, he carried with him an elevating and refining 
 influence without imposing undue constraint upon his company. 
 
 In local politics Dr. Symonds took no very active part. He was 
 well known as a steady and consistent Liberal, not shrinking from 
 any of the changes advocated by the leaders of his party. At the 
 same time his interest in politics and the ability with which he 
 handled political questions were so well known as to render many 
 of his professional brethren anxious that he should offer himself as 
 a candidate for the representation of Edinburgh University when 
 it was enfranchised.
 
 REMOVAL TO CLIFTON. xvii. 
 
 18511868. 
 
 The year 1851 may be taken as an epoch in the life of Dr. 
 Symonds owing to the fact that this was the date of his removal 
 from Bristol to Clifton Hill House, in Clifton, where he continued 
 to reside until his death. This change of residence did not, indeed, 
 involve any very marked alteration in his life and habits ; but his 
 house was larger : he was better able from this time forward to indulge 
 his taste for the accumulation of works of art, and for the exercise 
 of a large yet refined hospitality. The drudgery of his profession was 
 in some measure relaxed. He spent the evening more frequently in 
 the society of his friends, gathering around him all the strangers of 
 eminence in literature or science who visited Clifton. It was during 
 the last twenty years of his life that he formed a close friendship 
 with Professor James Forbes, afterwards Principal of St. Andrews, 
 with Professor Conington, and with the present Master of Balliol. 
 The dedications of Professor Forbes's " Travels in Norway," and of 
 Professor Conington's Translation of the Odes of Horace, remain 
 as monuments of the common literary interests which united Dr. 
 Symonds to men of eminence. At Clifton again he made the 
 acquaintance of Lord Macaulay, Mr. Hallain, Lord Lansdowne, and 
 Professor Sedgwick. The society _of many others, among whom 
 I may mention Professor Maurice, Woolner the sculptor, Kingsley, 
 Tennyson, Sir Henry Holland, Sir J. K. Shuttleworth, Baron 
 Bunsen, and Mr. Gladstone, though only enjoyed at intervals, 
 formed one of the chief pleasures of his life.* 
 
 Nothing was more characteristic of Dr. Symonds than his power 
 
 * These lists are not meant of course to be exhaustive, but only illustrative of 
 the wide and varied circle of his friends. I cannot forbear from adding here the 
 names of Matthew Davenport Hill, his kinsman and most valued associate during 
 twenty years of intimacy; and of the Dean of Bristol ; with both of whom, owing to 
 their residence in the neighbourhood, he was able to enjoy a close and constant 
 intercourse. 
 
 b
 
 xviii. MEMOIR. 
 
 of winning the regard and affection of all who came in contact with 
 him by his great ability, by the catholicity of his tastes, and more 
 than all by his kindness. Those who knew him but slightly were 
 drawn to him by the diffusive kindness of his nature : those who 
 knew him better had good cause to say that they had never found 
 that kindness fail : while one of the best and most eminent among 
 his friends described Mm as " the genius of kindness." 
 
 After Dr. Symonds's removal to Clifton he indulged more fre- 
 quently in summer holidays . Twice he paid a visit to his friends 
 in Scotland, passing a few weeks with Professor Forbes in the 
 beautiful scenery that surrounds Pitlochrie, and renewing his old 
 familiarity with the streets and wynds of Edinburgh. His excur- 
 sions to the Continent were more frequent. Before the final visit 
 which he paid to Italy in 1869, he made four summer tours with his 
 son and daughter, through various parts of Germany, Switzerland, 
 and Lombardy. The most characteristic point about these pleasure 
 trips was their brevity combined with comprehensiveness. A 
 journal has been kept of one of them in which, starting from 
 Brussels with his son, he visited Cologne, Berlin, Dresden, the Saxon 
 Switzerland, Prague, Vienna, Salzburg, Munich, and the Bhine, 
 within the space of less than three weeks omitting no matter of 
 importance, but studying picture-galleries and palaces, inspecting 
 battle-fields, riding or driving in search of fine scenery, listening to 
 operas, calling upon foreigners of distinction, examining hospitals, 
 and enquiring into all matters of topographical, geological, and 
 antiquarian interest. In order to secure time for sight-seeing, the 
 travelling was chiefly done by night ; nor did Dr. Symonds seem in 
 the least exhausted by the sustained intellectual and physical 
 excitement, which proved sufficiently fatiguing to his son, a lad at 
 college.* On the contrary he showed his freshness by the literature 
 with which he occupied spare moments. Mill's " Political Economy," 
 
 * In a letter dated Lausanne, July 22, 1862, Dr. Symonds writes : " In this life 
 I realize the laboriousness of my life at home ; for what seems to me in travelling 
 no fatigue at all, or even absolute recreation, is to my children hard work,"
 
 MEDICAL WHITINGS. XIX. 
 
 if I remember rightly, was the pidce de resistance he carried in his 
 travelling bag for study ; while the rare half hours of idleness in 
 wayside inns and railway stations were often devoted to the reading 
 aloud of Milton or Tennyson. The habit of constant labour which he 
 had acquired in thirty years of hard professional work, could not 
 be thrown off. The holiday itself became a source of exhaustion : 
 nor was it surprising that the summers in which he stayed at home 
 proved, according to his own confession, less fatiguing than those in 
 which he took a tour. 
 
 In 1853 Dr. Symonds was elected a member of the Eoyal College 
 of Physicians, of which body he became a Fellow four years later. 
 In 1858 he was called upon to deliver the Gulstonian Lectures in 
 the lecture room of the College in Pall Mall. The subject selected 
 by him was " Headache," which, to quote the words of a medical 
 authority, " he treated in an almost exhaustive manner." In 1863 
 while performing the duties of President of the British Medical 
 Association, which held its annual meeting that year in Bristol, he 
 delivered an address on the " Public Estimate of Medicine." This 
 address is in effect a vindication of Medicine considered as a 
 science and an art,* from the arguments of enemies and incautious 
 admissions of querulous supporters. Admitting the defects and 
 failures to which medicine is peculiarly liable owing to the complex 
 and uncertain nature of the facts with which it has to deal, Dr. 
 Symonds insists with much vigour of conclusive logic that it is 
 unreasonable to attack this art because it cannot boast of mathe- 
 matical precision. 
 
 Continuing the account of medical writings belonging to this 
 period of his life, I may mention a paper on " Death by Chloroform," 
 which was read before the Harveian Society in 1856, and afterwards 
 published in the Medical Times and Gazette. The practical value 
 of this essay has been amply acknowledged by the highest medical 
 authorities. Again in 1860 the medical journal above mentioned 
 
 * " Long i-ecognized by all enlightened physicians as perhaps the most successful 
 'Apologia pro vita sua' ever published." Lancet, March 4, 1871, p. 32i.
 
 XX. MEMOIR. 
 
 published some strictures by Dr. Symonds on the stimulant treat- 
 ment recommended by Dr. Todd in his " Lectures on Acute 
 Disease," and in 1864 appeared in the same columns an article of 
 great public interest, on the " Criminal Eesponsibility of Lunatics." 
 The experience of Dr. Symonds had led him to entertain the opinion 
 that mad people are far more under the dominion of their will, and 
 are more susceptible of being deterred from outbreaks of ungovernable 
 criminal passion than is usually supposed. He was consequently 
 intolerant of the plea of incipient insanity by which criminals 
 frequently elude justice, and believed that it would be to the 
 advantage of the community if mad persons guilty of violence 
 while still at large were held accountable for their actions. 
 
 In the midst of professional studies Dr. Symonds continued to 
 cultivate more general literature, and composed at this period the 
 most valuable of the essays included in this volume. " Waste," 
 " Sleep and Dreams," and " Ten Years," were all lectures delivered 
 at the Bristol Institution. They may be pointed out as the best 
 examples of the brilliant and weighty style of their author. The 
 subject of " Sleep and Dreams," which has a peculiar fascination 
 for all readers, was one well suited to display the fine descriptive 
 powers, the calm and solid reasoning, and the large acquaintance 
 with literature possessed by Dr. Symonds. " Waste " and " Ten 
 Years " illustrate another quality of his intellect, his delight in 
 contemplating all that is vast, mysterious, and awful in the world, 
 and in the history of man. The remote past, and the remote future, 
 allured his imagination with a spell that gave its charm to ponder- 
 ings over the dry catalogues of Egyptian kings, or to speculations 
 concerning the aboriginal races of the European Continent. Again 
 those branches of science which open out illimitable horizons for 
 conjecture, such as the theory of the correlation of forces, or the 
 theories of evolution advocated by Darwin and Huxley, rivetted 
 his attention even while he did not always agree with the conclu- 
 sions to which they seem to lead. But it was not the practical or ' 
 logical faculties of his intellect so much as the imaginative and
 
 MENTAL QUALITIES. XXI. 
 
 artistic which were stimulated by these historical and scientific 
 meditations. In this respect I have sometimes thought that his 
 genius closely resembled that of a physician of the seventeenth 
 century, whose eloquent writings he was never tired of studying, 
 Sir Thomas Browne. 
 
 A more extensive as well as a more analytical composition 
 belonging to this period is the essay on the " Principles of Beauty." 
 Having been elected President of the Canynge Society for the 
 restoration of St. Mary's, Redcliff, in 1856, Dr. Syrnonds delivered an 
 address upon this subject, which he afterwards enlarged and pub- 
 lished. A considerable portion of the essay is devoted to an 
 exposition of Mr. Hay's theory of the correspondence between the 
 harmonic ratios of sound and the geometrical proportions which, 
 according to his opinion, determine all forms of beauty. Thus a 
 scientific basis is laid for sesthetical speculation. It is in the 
 application of these principles, in their connection with -facts of 
 physiology, and in the analysis of intellectual and moral beauty 
 that the author's originality of thought and elevation of sentiment 
 are most conspicuous. 
 
 In his studies for the composition of this essay Dr. Symonds 
 gave another proof of his versatility and energy. Up to this time 
 the arts had been to him, indeed, a source of refined amusement ; 
 but he had never sought to explain the pleasure he derived from 
 them by reference to any scientific law. He now set himself to 
 observe the nature of sounds in harmony and discord, to interrogate 
 the monochord, to describe ellipses, to construct diagrams, and to 
 calculate numbers all tasks quite alien to the previous studies of 
 Ms life, and for the arithmetical portion of which he had an absolute 
 distaste. 
 
 After having said so much about the several compositions of 
 Dr. Symonds, and after tracing the various studies to which he 
 successively devoted his attention, it may not be inappropriate to 
 attempt, however roughly, to estimate his literary qualities and to 
 characterize his taste. The most prominent features of his mind
 
 XX11. MEMOIR. 
 
 were its firmness, solidity, and soundness. In forming judgments* 
 he was deliberate ; in adhering to them tenacious. Fully conscious 
 of the grounds on which he based opinions, he was ready to defend 
 his views by argument. Adding great reasoning faculties to a vigorous 
 memory he displayed unusual skill in collecting facts, marshalling 
 them in their proper order, and drawing their legitimate conclusions. 
 This logical quality of intellect not only strengthened him, in 
 the practice of his art, but it also added a peculiar weight and force 
 to his style of composition. It was impossible to treat anything 
 he wrote or said as if it had been written or spoken on the spur of 
 the moment, to meet his arguments^with flimsy reasoning, or to 
 disregard his opinions as' lightly formed. His language was from 
 the same cause pregnant with meaning, well balanced, carefully 
 chosen, erring if anything upon the side of laborious exactitude and 
 determined fulness, never lapsing into vagueness or the exuberance 
 of inconsiderate fluency. His taste was sound and healthy. He 
 had an instinctive shrinking from everything in art or literature 
 or nature which showed the least tendency to grotesqueness or 
 morbidity. Medieval art possessed no attractions for him. He 
 disliked the style of Dante because of what he thought its 
 repulsiveness and want of form. The polished elegance of Tennyson 
 attracted him : the waywardness of Browning displeased his taste. 
 In fact, his sesthetical standard was classical; not cosmopolitan 
 and eclectic, but strictly restrained by the laws of natural 
 beauty as divined and followed by Greek artists and the best 
 of the Italians. Form he greatly preferred to colour. All 
 objects of art which depend for their attraction upon remote asso- 
 ciations, antiquarian interest, or mere magnificence of hue, had but 
 
 * It may not here be out of place to mention one of his most marked 
 characteristics, for which our language has no word so expressive as the Greek. 
 avTapiefia. The friends for whose judgment he entertained the deepest respect,. 
 and with whom he most willingly exchanged -ideas, can best bear witness to his- 
 independence. He never sought advice or declined responsibility; but in the most 
 intricate affairs of life relied entirely on his own conscientious deliberation. This 
 self-sufficing strength of character gave great force and value to his counsel.
 
 CHARACTERISTICS OF HIS TASTE. xxiil. 
 
 little value in his eyes ; nor could he tolerate the pursuit of such 
 articles of rarity as old china or old furniture in which there is no 
 intrinsic heauty of design. A similar sympathy for what is harmonious 
 led him to prefer Italian to Swiss scenery; lawns, meadows, and 
 wooded streams to rocks and glaciers ; the tranquil and dignified 
 to the sublime and agitated aspects of nature. Owing to this 
 delicacy of taste he disliked emphatic writing and extravagant 
 incidents in works of fiction : he preferred the smoothness of 
 Miss Austen's novel writing to the intensity of Charlotte Bronte ; 
 while the sternness of George Eliot's philosophy found less favour 
 with him than the genial worldly wisdom of Trollope. His own 
 experience of what is terrible in human histories made him avoid 
 the artistic presentation of vehement passions and heart-rending 
 tragedies. Culture and refinement were in fact so nicely blended in 
 his nature with profound tenderness that he could not endure to con- 
 template in fiction what he had too often witnessed in real life. From 
 another point of view the same quality of mind prevented him from 
 admiring many works which though artistically splendid are morally 
 repellent. Though a great reader of biographies he never took the 
 least interest in the memoirs of Cellini or Eousseau, because the 
 revelation of excessive or ill ordered passions grieved him. In like 
 manner, while admitting the greatness of Goethe as a poet and a 
 thinker, he never made a friend of him, and rarely returned after 
 one reading to any of his works. The French novelists, Balzac, 
 George Sand, and Victor Hugo, were for similar reasons excluded 
 from his sympathy. It was long before he conquered his aversion 
 to the grotesque mannerism of Carlyle ; and after submitting to 
 the charm of this great master's writing he admired the panegyrist 
 of Cromwell rather than the scene-painter of the French Eevolution. 
 This negative account of the peculiar quality of his artistic sense 
 may be best illustrated and supplemented by the mention of 
 Eaphael and Milton, as the painter and the poet to whom he gave 
 his earliest adherence, and for whom he retained to the last his 
 profoundest veneration. The healthy beauty of the one, the majesty
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 of the other, the moral purity and dignity of both, seemed to 
 satisfy all the requirements of his nature. 
 
 The qualities of taste which I have attempted thus to charac- 
 terize are very noticeable in the poetry of Dr. Syrnonds a few 
 specimens of which I have included in this collection. Correctness 
 of expression, distinctness of idea, precision of form, elevation of 
 sentiment, harmony and serenity of intellect are traceable in every 
 line. It would be difficult to say that any English poet has been 
 imitated, or that these poems belong to any one school of verse. 
 Yet there is a moral strength and dignity, a philosophical repose, a 
 felicity of grave and studied diction, a parsimony of mere ornament, 
 about them all which remind us perhaps more of "Wordsworth than 
 of any other master, proving that their author belonged to the same 
 order of genius as the singer of the " Ode to Duty." 
 
 18681871. 
 
 In the autumn of 1868 the first symptoms of declining health 
 made themselves manifest in an attack of illness, from which Dr. 
 Symonds but partially recovered during the ensuing winter. His 
 strength returned so slowly that, yielding to the persuasions of his 
 friends, he determined in the March of 1869 to take a longer tour 
 than any he had previously indulged in. To visit Eome and Naples 
 had long been one of his most dearly cherished wishes. Accordingly 
 lie travelled southward, as quickly as the inconveniences of a very 
 severe Italian spring permitted, with his youngest daughter, and 
 established himself with the intention of spending some time in the 
 Hotel Costanzi at Eome. But the climate proved unfavourable to 
 his health ; and Eome itself was too full of mental stimulus for one 
 who needed rest. Pictures, sculpture, antiquities, ruins, all the 
 accumulated interests and associations of the capital of the world 
 claimed his attention and aroused his old activity. He fell ill and 
 dreaded an attack of Eoman fever, to avoid which he removed to 
 Castellammare, near Naples, and thence again with the advance of
 
 DECLINING HEALTH. XXV. 
 
 spring moved northwards to Florence. There his weakness returned 
 with greater force, and he was obliged to quit Florence for Venice. 
 After this he travelled slowly homewards through Tyrol and Germany, 
 somewhat, although but superficially, restored in health. It is 
 melancholy to think of this journey, anticipated through years of toil 
 with feelings of the most vivid expectation, but rendered worse than 
 useless for all purposes of pleasure by the illness and debility which 
 constantly reminded the traveller of the change which had come over 
 him. At this time, however, prolonged repose and careful attention 
 to health might still have arrested the undefined and insidious 
 approach of fatal sickness. But to absolute retirement from 
 practice Dr. Symonds would not consent, though urged to take this 
 step by the members of his family and by his most intimate friends. 
 He fancied that his strength was sufficiently re-established to admit 
 of his engaging in at least a moderate amount of work. Nor did 
 the experience of the summer fail to justify this opinion. Unfor- 
 tunately, however, for his progress towards recovery the annual 
 autumnal congress of the Social Science Association was to be held 
 in 1869 at Clifton, and Dr. Symonds was appointed President of 
 the Health Section. During the summer months he threw himself 
 with his accustomed energy into the preparation of his address on 
 " Health," and of a paper which he read on the repression of habitual 
 drunkenness. The labour of composition was followed by the strain 
 of presiding over his Section during the Congress ; added to pro- 
 fessional duties this unusual pressure of work proved too heavy for 
 his strength. Before Christmas he left Clifton for Brighton in the 
 hope that change of air might restore some portion of his vigour. 
 When he returned, he finally abandoned practice. Although his 
 health was now most seriously broken, he had at least immunity 
 from pain, and enjoyed the exercise of all his mental faculties. 
 Books became more than ever his pleasure ; it seemed even possible 
 that he might still have many years of moderate enjoyment in store 
 for him. If before his illness his life had been a pattern of strenuous 
 activity, it now became no less remarkable for patient endurance
 
 MEMOIR. 
 
 and for cheerfulness under privation. Struck down at the early 
 age of sixty-two, suddenly arrested in the midst of a career of 
 usefulness, smitten by a slow disease, the nature of which he fully 
 understood and which he vainly strove to combat, forced to exchange 
 authority for obedience, and energy for inaction, he never mur- 
 mured but supported himself with a philosophy of tranquil and 
 unquestioning acceptance. During the summer of 1870 he was 
 visited by an attack of acute illness, and for two or three weeks it 
 was thought impossible that he should live. From this he rallied : 
 the autumn and the early winter months were passed by him in 
 study. He even composed and dictated at this time a review of 
 Wallace's criticisms on the Darwinian theory of Development. The 
 books he read were principally biographies, and works on Greek 
 topography ; but he did not neglect even deeper subjects. Volumes 
 of Herbert Spencer's and Mill's Essays, or of Lewis's " History of 
 Philosophy " might often have been seen upon his desk, or, as the 
 weeks went on, upon the bed to which he was now frequently 
 confined. "With the beginning of the new year a decided change 
 took place. He grew weaker and weaker, till at last he died on 
 the 25th of February. Till within a few hours of his death he 
 retained his mental faculties intact. He astonished the physicians 
 who visited him by the clearness and coherence of his views of his 
 own case. Each member of his family received from his lips some 
 touching proof that he carried with him to the grave the same 
 affection and vivid interest which he had shewn to them through 
 life. To the last he continued to converse with pleasure upon 
 all topics, showing a "mind at rest perfectly content to quit this 
 world, serene in the certainty that it must be well with those who 
 have striven to conform themselves to the Divine Will. I am 
 unwilling to do more than touch upon a subject so sacred as the 
 faith by which the soul of this good and great man was supported 
 throughout life and sustained in the hour of death. It was a faith 
 that cannot be described by any formula or reduced to the shibboleth 
 of any sect, a faith so strong and vital and instinctive, so deeply
 
 PEKSONAL CHARACTER. XXVlL- 
 
 seated in the mental and moral nature, so far above the petty strifes 
 and temporary phases of conflicting dogmas, so carefully reasoned, 
 so reverently preserved, that it seemed to be the very source of life 
 to him who held it.* 
 
 In passing from this brief and meagre record of the facts of 
 my father's life to the attempt to estimate his personal character, 
 I shrink from a task which it is impossible for a son, especially 
 in the first sorrow of bereavement, to fulfil. What, however, 
 I could not do myself has been done for me by one who knew and 
 loved him truly. The following letter addressed to me by my 
 brother-in-law, Sir Edward Strachey, leaves nothing in this respect 
 to be added or desired : 
 
 " You ask me to give you something of my estimate of your father's 
 character. I will do what I can ; tut I feel that my relationship with him by 
 marriage, and our long and intimate friendship, before as well as since my 
 marriage, in some respects disqualify me from giving such an estimate, though 
 they have perhaps afforded me better opportunity than most others of knowing 
 what that character was. For I cannot be expected I cannot even desire to 
 be an impartial judge in this matter. I am conscious that my language must 
 be that of eulogy, even while I believe that it is most sincere. I do not 
 indeed think I shall pass the limits of the strictest impartiality if I say that 
 if I sum up your father's character in one word, that word is magnanimity. 
 He was great in intellect and in intellectual tastes and habits ; he was great in 
 the force, the dignity, and the purity of his life ; and he was great if I say 
 greatest, it is not to diminish the weight of my former words in his affections, 
 in the deep and strong, yet tender and overflowing love which he felt and 
 shewed first to his own children and family, but beyond them, in an ever- 
 widening circle of kindness, humanity and philanthropy towards all with whom 
 he came in contact in life, or contemplated from a distance. And this strong 
 human affection was united with a piety towards God, a sense of the good- 
 ness of God, and a personal thankfulness to God for his own share of that 
 
 * The following extract from a letter, written by Dr. Symonds to a friend in 
 1851, very distinctly expresses what were his opinions about the relation of the 
 religious to the active life : " God is the centre of the moral as of the physical 
 world. It has pleased Him to place our souls, like the starry spheres, in orbits that 
 are governed by centripetal and centrifugal forces : the former draw us towards Him; 
 the latter propel us through those scenes of outward life where our work and our 
 duty lies. Moved too centripetally, we become ascetic or fanatical. Carried away 
 too centrifagally, it is well if we do not fly off at a tangent into chaos, or to the 
 devil, the Lord of that domain of lost intelligences."
 
 xxviii. MEMOIR. 
 
 goodness, the expression of which, because it was so living, ever came upon me 
 with the force of novelty, though a not uncommon subject of discourse between 
 us. It was a piety which bore in its spontaneous and habitual utterance the 
 best evidence of its life and freshness ; and I hardly needed our frequent and 
 unreserved discussion of these matters on the ground and by the tests of truth 
 and reason to enable me to know how living and fresh it was, and how far from 
 being the mere continuation of the habitual beliefs which a man of blameless life 
 will often retain from the religious education of his childhood without much 
 sense of their practical reality. 
 
 " Your father possessed what Coleridge defined as ' commanding genius,' the 
 genius of action as distinguished from that of philosophic contemplation and 
 origination. Those who are best able to pronounce a judgment on his pro- 
 fessional character his brother physicians will, I believe, agree that he had 
 reached the highest knowledge and skill as a physician ; that none had attained 
 to more of the science and the art of medicine ; and that if he had not preferred 
 Clifton to London no name would have been more eminent than his in the 
 profession. But while the practice practice resting on the scientific study of 
 medicine was the real work of his life, to which all other things were 
 habitually subordinated, there was no subject of human interest, however 
 remote it might seem from his daily work, of which his active mind did not 
 take thoughtful notice. Art, poetry, history, science, philosophy, and politics, 
 in their oldest and their newest forms, recorded on Egyptian monuments, 
 or in the last publications of the day, ' nil humani a se alienum putavit ;' 
 and those who habitually enjoyed, as you and I and so many more did, 
 his brilliant yet thoughtful conversation in his most hospitable home, will 
 add, ' nihil quod tetigit non ornavit.' And he was even more remarkable 
 for his moral force than for his intellectual activity, though the two were 
 so well tempered together that I have often thought that he might have 
 been a great statesman if he had made politics the business of his life. 
 1 Never hasting, never resting,' he seemed to us in past years to possess that 
 physical frame ' incapable of fatigue ' which too has been said to be indis- 
 pensable to a statesman ; but now that we know too late how he suffered from 
 serious disease, originating doubtless in over-work, yet for a long time not 
 arresting that work, we know that his apparent physical energy must have been 
 sustained by a still greater moral energy a will as well-regulated as it was 
 strong, directing his whole powers along that course of action which duty 
 prescribed. A deep and strong sense of duty sometimes gives a man, especially 
 if of firm will, a sternness of character ; but this was not so with your father ; 
 his strength was that of a man, but his tenderness was that of a woman. I do 
 not speak of what he was to us and in all his family relationships : of these 
 things we must say with Tennyson, ' Open converse there is none,' the 
 children by the hearth can only think in silence, ' How good ! how kind ! and 
 he is gone.' But recollections crowd upon me of his sympathy with the suffer- 
 ings, the anxieties, or the hopes of those with whom his profession brought him
 
 PERSONAL CHARACTER. xxix. 
 
 in contact, or whom he heard or read of in the outer world. Those who knew 
 him best knew best how genuine that sympathy was, and that it was no mere 
 softness of manner which might be expected in any master of the physician's 
 art. I will mention two instances which his friends could multiply an hundred 
 fold, of his sympathetic goodness. He had been attending a sick clergyman 
 who had come to Clifton with his family to be under his care, and had taken 
 the usual fees for some months. He knew nothing of the circumstances of the 
 family, which appeared to be good ; but just before they left something occurred 
 which suggested to him a suspicion that such was not the case. On this mere 
 hint, with a generosity which none of us can think unusual in him, he sent a 
 cheque for the whole amount of those fees to the wife of the clergyman, and was 
 repaid by her telling him that his gift was of the utmost value to them, for 
 that notwithstanding all appearances, it had been only by the greatest sacrifices 
 that they had been able to spend those months at Clifton for the sake of his 
 advice. On another occasion, a small farmer in my neighbourhood (who told me 
 the story a short time since, though it occurred ten or eleven years ago), went 
 by the advice of the country doctor to beg your father to visit his wife who 
 was in danger beyond the reach of country skill. It was at night, and in the 
 worst wintry weather, and when your father came in at the end of a hard day's 
 work he found the farmer waiting with the application. The distance was 
 several miles ; and your father told the farmer that he himself was so unwell 
 that he was not able to undertake the journey that night. He urged that the 
 woman was very ill : your father asked whether she was related to him ; and 
 when he replied that she was his wife and the mother of ten children, your 
 father, ill and tired as he plainly was, said, ' I'll come ;' and to his visit that 
 night the farmer doubts not that he owes it that his wife still lives. His sym- 
 pathy with the actual sufferings of his patients and their friends was such that 
 he has told me that he sometimes felt as if he could hardly continue his 
 practice ; yet, on the other hand, when in the prospect of his failing health I 
 have talked with him of the desirableness of his retiring from work, he always 
 recurred to the doubt whether he could rightly for such questions ever became 
 with him, as by unconscious instinct, questions of right withdraw from the 
 use of that power of alleviating human suffering which he had acquired in long 
 years of experience. In that well-balanced mind I cannot contemplate the 
 spirit of duty which pervaded every action without recognizing the not less 
 everywhere present and powerful spirit of sympathy, responsive to every form 
 of life and happiness, and still more to every form of suffering and sorrow. 
 
 " His whole life was ' nothing but good and fair ' in all the meaning 
 which the old Greeks he loved so well gave to those words, and the still deeper 
 meaning with which his not less-loved Milton repeats them. 'Home he's gone 
 and taken his wages ;' if he sleeps, it is a sleep from which, as he wrote oc 
 your mother's and now his tomb, there is a waking."*
 
 XXX. MEMOIR. 
 
 Some words must be added respecting Dr. Symonds' purely 
 professional qualities. Here I can do no more than attempt to 
 record the opinion expressed by the best judges among his brethren. 
 They are unanimously agreed in speaking most highly of the 
 -sagacity and logical acumen with which he brought his wide expe- 
 rience and accurate scientific knowledge to bear upon the cases that 
 fell beneath his observation. Dr. Symonds was equally strong in 
 the analysis of disease and in the anticipation of its probable 
 progress, duration, and ultimate determination. Gifted with a 
 singular faculty for reading the physiognomy of sickness, he was 
 led by an unerring tact to divine which organs were in fault, to 
 estimate in complicated cases the bearing of several disorders on 
 each other, and to calculate the endurance which the constitution 
 might be expected to display. In his employment of remedies he 
 was especially skilful. The sagacity which led him to detect the 
 lurking sources of disease and the sustained reasoning by which he 
 was enabled to calculate its future course, did not desert him in the 
 department of therapeutics. That he looked upon as the peculiar 
 province of the practical physician as distinguished from the 
 pathologist. The whole humanity of his nature came to the aid of 
 his science and his reason when he found himself face to face with 
 his enemy in the shape of disease that could be conquered, or when, 
 the resources of art to restore health proving unavailing, he had 
 nothing left but to alleviate suffering and prolong life. In com- 
 bining drugs of different qualities, so as to render them reciprocally 
 powerful ; in suiting his remedies to the peculiar temperament of 
 each patient ; in uniting several methods of treatment and making 
 them co-operate to the one object of a cure, he showed remarkable 
 dexterity. Though resolute in pursuing a plan adopted witli 
 deliberation, and not easily daunted by apparent obstacles or 
 temporary ill-success, he was always ready with fresh expedients ; 
 indeed, there seemed no end to his inventiveness. He was never 
 wedded to one theory, never preoccupied by pet opinions, nor biassed, 
 ;as is often the case with men whose reason forms a less sure
 
 PROFESSIONAL QUALITIES. XXxi. 
 
 counterpoise to their imagination, by the results of peculiar expe- 
 rience and observation. Accurately to examine, dispassionately to 
 judge, and then, guided by vigorous reasoning, to exhaust all the 
 resources of his art in the sole interest of his patient was the simple 
 .rule of his professional conduct. With regard to his dealings with 
 his brethren there is but one opinion that he combined consum- 
 mate courtesy, perfect justice, and scrupulous honour, with a weight 
 of personal influence, and a scientific ability that rendered his 
 : assistance in consultation invaluable. 
 
 In confirmation and support of this brief estimate, I shall here 
 insert a quotation from the obituary notice published in the British 
 Medical Journal (March 11, 1871), from information communicated 
 by two of the most distinguished physicians of Clifton : 
 
 "In looking back upon his career it is impossible not to record certain 
 eminent characteristics. He had a great love and honour for his profession. 
 He was always most anxious that the science of medicine should take its proper 
 pkce in the minds both of scientific men and of the general public. As a 
 practitioner he was cautious in diagnosis, but often vigorous in treatment. As 
 o. consulting physician, he had no rival in the West of England, combining 
 qualities which commended him in the highest degree to the profession and to 
 the public. While availing himself to the fullest extent of the observations of 
 the medical attendant, he was careful himself to test every point that was 
 capable of verification ; and while he suffered no consideration to interfere with 
 the course most likely to benefit the patient, he always yielded due honour to 
 his professional brethren, and due weight to their opinions. His liberality to 
 his juniors in the profession was carried to a very unusual degree, and his hand 
 was ever held out to help others to rise. His acumen in diagnosis, especially in 
 diseases of the heart and lungs, was very remarkable ; and his memory of 
 former cases was so good that in the most difficult circumstances he could 
 always afford practical suggestions of the utmost value. His brilliant powers of 
 reasoning, his untiring energy, his regular habits, his marvellous sympathy with 
 suffering, and his general trustworthiness were all elements in attaining a 
 success, which it is not too much to say, has been unrivalled by any provincial 
 physician in this generation. 
 
 "On the whole, there was a rare completeness and rotundity about Dr. 
 Symonds's character and career. Though he died at the comparatively early 
 age of sixty-three, he had long before attained all the honours that are open to 
 a physician in a great provincial city. In all matters not purely political or 
 municipal, he was looked up to and referred to by his fellow-citizens as their 
 natural leader and adviser, and thus held a position among them too seldom
 
 XXxii. MEMOIR. 
 
 occupied by men of his profession, and which he owed to a singular combination 
 of endowments, high literary and scientific as well as professional attainments, 
 cultivation and elegance in speaking and in writing, intuitive tact and know- 
 ledge of men, ready hospitality and unostentatious generosity. His power of 
 self-control, his thorough mastery over his whole moral and intellectual nature 
 was one of his most remarkable characteristics ; and his warm and generous 
 feelings, directed and controlled by a sound judgment, diffused a steady glow of 
 beneficence around him." 
 
 Enough perhaps has now been said to give some faint idea of 
 the character and genius of a man whom those who loved him felt 
 to be as good and great as man on earth may be. Yet I cannot 
 bring my task to a close without transcribing for the readers of the 
 following pages a passage in which he has himself expressed his 
 own ideal of a perfect character, leaving those who knew him to 
 answer whether through the whole course of his blameless life he 
 did not realize in every act and thought and word that beauty to 
 which he here so powerfully and reverently alludes : 
 
 " I dare not venture on more sacred ground ; but he who has had the 
 happiness of watching the lives of those who, in passing through the world, 
 escape contamination ; who devote their faculties, endowments, and exertions 
 to the promotion of the happiness of others, by making them wiser and better ; 
 and who shew in all their actions and feelings and endurances that the moral 
 sentiments are developed to the greatest height commensurate with humanity 
 because they are interpenetrated with, and become assimilated to, the divine 
 light and the divine pattern ; he who has watched the course of such lives and 
 characters will understand what is signified by ' the beauty of holiness.' "
 
 THE 
 
 PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 word Beauty has two meanings, being used in a manner 
 analogous to that in which the word Heat is employed. For as 
 ^r<5j-> the latter is applied both to the feeling of heat, and also to the 
 "V property in outward bodies which causes the feeling, so Beauty 
 expresses both the feeling in the mind and its external cause. But 
 the analogy will not bear to be extended further. Heat, for instance, 
 so far as its operation on matter is concerned, may be considered quite 
 apart from any impression on a percipient mind, and can be conceived 
 to consist independently of mind : but the conception of Beauty always 
 involves a mental impression or action. Exclude feeling and thought, 
 and no place will be found for Beauty. 
 
 It will be at once a convenient and a natural arrangement of the 
 subject to consider Beauty in relation, first, to Sensation ; secondly, to 
 Thought or Reflection ; thirdly, to Moral Sentiments ; and fourthly, to 
 Associated Emotions. After these topics, we shall conclude with a 
 few remarks on the Uses of Beauty. 
 
 II. 
 
 THOUGH we speak of Beauty as having sensation for one of its causes, 
 it must be borne in mind that it is only such sensation as comes 
 through the eye and the ear. The senses of sight and hearing have 
 been called the art-senses, and are distinguished from the others by 
 
 B
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 their greater objectivity. Of their results our own personality forms a 
 smaller part. Taste and smell and touch we cannot describe but in 
 terms which involve our own bodily consciousness as part of the 
 sensation. We feel the taste, the smell, the touch ; but the hill, the 
 tree, the bird, the thunder, the wind, and the song, are spoken of as 
 separate from our own personality, and without reference to our organs 
 or nerves of seeing and hearing. We may in subsequent observations 
 and reflections ascertain or infer that these objects were made known 
 to us by the instrumentality of our eyes and ears ; but neither these 
 organs, nor any part of our corporeal personality, were brought before 
 our minds in the first perceptions of such sights and sounds. 
 
 Our English word feeling seems to belong especially to those states 
 of consciousness of which the Ego or personal consciousness is the 
 principal part ; for examples, the emotions, the moral sentiments, the 
 internal bodily sensations (hunger, thirst, &c.), and the outward 
 sensations caused by the contact of external bodies with the skin and 
 by the action of the muscles, in tact and touch. And though we do 
 not use exactly such a phrase as feeling a flavour, or an odour, yet we 
 must admit that there is more affinity between these two sensations 
 and bodily feelings, than between the latter and the sensations of sight 
 and hearing. Into the sentiment of Beauty through sense objectivity 
 necessarily enters. The pleasure ensuing on sight and sound has a 
 characteristic difference, which we express by the word beautiful ; but 
 pleasant odours and flavours are described as delicious a word which 
 involves a degree of subjectivity or personal delight approaching to 
 the sensual. Of all. the sources of pleasure, perhaps the most frequent 
 is that of sight. Sight more frequently, extensively, and importantly 
 than any other sense, put us in relation with the outer world ; and the 
 quality by which we designate the pleasure which accompanies this 
 sense is applied by metaphor to almost everything which gives us 
 either agreeable feeling, or mental enjoyment. 
 
 There is no better definition of what is beautiful, in its simplest 
 essence, than the phrase which we meet with early in the Bible 
 " pleasant to the eye." Yisual pleasure is the germinal form of 
 Beauty. " Truly the light is sweet, and it is a pleasant thing for the 
 eyes to behold the sun." But the word receives far more extensive 
 and more complex applications. By the transitions of language it 
 often expresses that of which visual pleasure is no component, or a 
 very small one. An infant's delight in a brilliant object, or some vivid
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 
 
 colour, illustrates the simplest form of beauty. The mother, looking 
 fondly at the infant's smiling face, and hearing its crow of joy, has a 
 more composite feeling of the Beautiful. A philosopher, watching 
 the two, exclaims, "What beautiful illustrations of my theory!" 
 using the epithet partly in its metaphorical sense, but also in expres- 
 sion of a kind of beauty, namely, that of fitness, which may be 
 considered hereafter. 
 
 Why certain feelings give us pleasure, it is often difficult to 
 explain. But there are some general facts, which belong, more or 
 less, to all pleasurable feelings. Thus pleasure will result from the 
 mere novelty of the sensation and with an obvious final cause 
 independent of the enjoyment, since it calls our attention to the outer 
 world, and makes the business of learning outward things an agreeable 
 excitement instead of a toil ; but if there is nothing in the impression 
 but its novelty to afford us pleasure, the enjoyment soon ceases. 
 Nature, however, is so rich, and art so fertile, that this source of 
 pleasure never fails, and it meets us under the form of what we call 
 variety. It is this which gives liveliness, piquancy, and animation to 
 our every-day life. How much we prize it, is evident from many of 
 the terms of commendation which we apply to things which are fresh 
 and new and unworn " To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures 
 new !" But it will not alone suffice to impart pleasure. It will not 
 make an agreeable sensation out of one that is in its nature disagree- 
 able. But if the sensation be of a neutral character, the novelty will 
 bestow on it a kind of charm, which betrays the feelings into a sense 
 of the beautiful ; and often erroneously, as we see in new fashions of 
 dress. Impressions, pleasant in themselves, pall by too frequent 
 repetition, or too long a continuance, and at last fail to awake the con- 
 sciousness, unless united with some collateral interest. 
 
 But change must not be abrupt or sudden ; or, if it be so, the 
 impression must dwell long enough for the first effect of suddenness 
 to subside. Quick exchanges of light and shade, of sound and silence, 
 by no means afford that sort of pleasure which would be called 
 beautiful. They are rather alternations of surprise and disappoint- 
 ment. A vivid impression ought to cease gradually, or to pass by 
 degrees into that which is to succeed. This is the agreeableness of 
 continuity. 
 
 Besides variety and continuity, there is another circumstance under 
 which sensation gives pleasure, viz. similarity. Repetition is agreeable,
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 not only if the thing is pleasant in itself, and before the repetition- 
 palls, but also through the recognition of the feeling, as being like 
 what had been felt before. That enjoyment should accrue from the 
 perception of similarities is scarcely less important than the gratifica- 
 tion of variety, because we thus learn to classify the objects of our 
 knowledge. But mere likeness without difference becomes distasteful 
 sameness or dull uniformity, just as mere variety without likeness 
 would be intolerable ; for in this case there would a number of insu- 
 lated experiences without any connection; and the perception of 
 relations is one of the deepest wants of our nature. 
 
 The pleasure derived from similarity enters largely into the beauty 
 of symmetry. This side is like that. This curve corresponds to that. 
 And it is like with a difference ; the difference being in place or material 
 (idem, in alioj. It is similarity which constitutes the pleasure derived 
 from imitation, and not merely the pleasure of witnessing the successful 
 production of likeness ; for, even if the imitation is accidental, the 
 spectator is pleased, as in the fortuitous resemblances occasionally seen 
 in nature as of stones which have some resemblances to plants, or of 
 plants which in a manner resemble animals. This kind of pleasure is 
 derived from those lowest works of art which are mere copies of 
 natural or artificial objects. Similarity enlivened by difference, 
 variety restrained by unity, may be found in all the arrangements of 
 light and shade, form, and colour, and sound, which are most pleasing 
 to the eye and to the ear ; and the same principles may be traced in 
 those movements of the body which are attended with pleasure. 
 
 Most of our sensations are received in conjunction with muscular 
 action. This exercise must be easy, or the enjoyment will be spoilt. 
 In muscular exercise there is constant alternation of action and repose. 
 To be pleasant, the movements should occasion no feeling of effort or 
 fatigue. The pleasure which ensues on the action is not referred to 
 the moving parts, but there is an agreeable condition of the personal 
 consciousness. To render it pleasant there must be sufficient rest to 
 prevent fatigue ; and this is effected by change in the direction of the 
 movements, so that different muscles may be employed, or the same 
 muscles in different degrees. The pleasure is enhanced when the 
 alternations of action and repose occur at regular intervals. Thus 
 it is easier to march or dance to music. We have said that the sudden 
 change of a sensation is disagreeable. The same may be said of a 
 muscular movement. A sudden resistance, and a sudden removal of a
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 
 
 resistance, are almost equally displeasing. Continuity, then, is an 
 element in agreeable movements, as well as in pleasant sensations. 
 
 The influence of similarity, and variety, and continuity may be 
 traced in the beauty which belongs to simple lines and quite apart 
 from all collateral suggestions. A straight line can hardly be said to 
 be in itself either beautiful or the reverse. It has unity of direction, 
 which, if too prolonged, may be displeasing by excess of uniformity, 
 and by muscular fatigue. Two parallel lines are agreeable or satis- 
 factory by reason of their similarity of direction, and their equality of 
 distance throughout their length. Two lines converging partly enclose 
 a space which may give pleasure to the eye, when seen in relation to 
 some other angle, by virtue of the proportion. The angles are seen 
 comparatively in a triangle. In the equilateral triangle the angles 
 give the satisfaction of similarity, unity, and equality of ratio to the 
 whole, being 60 : 60 : 60 = 180, or 1 : 3. 
 
 In the right-angled isosceles, they present unity and variety, and 
 yet definite proportions, being 1 : 1 and 1 to 2, i. e. 45 : 45 and 
 45 : 90. 
 
 In the scalene triangle made by bisection of the equilateral we 
 have variety governed by proportion, the angles being 30 : 60 : 
 90 or 1 : 2 and 2 : 3. 
 
 In another scalene, we have 18 : 72 : 90, or 1 : 4 and 4 : 5. 
 
 We have said that into agreeable sensation variety, continuity, 
 and similarity enter more or less. Now a curved line presents both 
 continuity and variety, in a manner agreeable to the sensation of 
 sight, and calling forth an agreeable exercise of the muscles of the 
 eye. But some curves are more pleasant than others. The circle 
 is less agreeable than the ellipse, and the simple ellipse than the 
 ovoid or composite ellipse. In the circle there is constant change of 
 direction ; but every change is like its predecessor, and the general 
 appearance is excess of uniformity or monotony. Moreover, the 
 muscular actions which trace it, whether of the eye or of the hand, 
 are comparatively difficult. In the ellipse the change of direction is 
 more gradual, and the figure admits of division by the eye, without 
 diameters, into opposites which are similar and symmetrical. The 
 ovoid is still more beautiful from the yet greater variety of direction, 
 with perfect facility of gradation. 
 
 But it is in combinations of lines that the principles which have 
 just been adverted to become still more obvious. If we trace a 
 succession of straight lines of equal lengths, forming a succession of
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 equal angles (as in the pattern for ladies' work called Vandyke), the 
 effect is not unpleasing ; for there is a variety of direction, recurring 
 at equal intervals, that produces similarity, and thus compensates in 
 some degree for the want of continuity and gradation : but if the 
 successive lines are of unequal lengths, and at unequal angles, making 
 what is called a jagged line, we have a very disagreeable effect the 
 result of sudden transitions of direction, without any regularity of 
 intervals. It is the excess of variety. But, in estimating the sesthetical 
 effect of combinations of lines, we are apt to forget (and I am not 
 aware that this subject has been hitherto noticed) the influence on the 
 eye of the partially enclosed spaces. In following such linear forms, 
 the eye not only pursues the lines, but it also traverses the intervening 
 spaces. I have adduced the monotony of the circle, and the more 
 pleasing variety of the ellipse, as explained by the direction of the 
 curve. But, apart from the course of the line, there is an impression 
 left on the sense by the enclosed space. The circle is always the same 
 in form, however different in size, the radii being equal. The ellipse, 
 on the other hand, is in its nature variable, and is at once recognised 
 as such. It suggests a form which may vary almost indefinitely by 
 the varying proportions between its major and minor axis. 
 
 When lines are so combined as to produce only partial enclosures 
 of space, the influence of the latter will depend on the arrangement 
 of the lines. Thus if we take a series of semicircles of equal diameters, 
 and arrange them on a horizontal line with the convexities uppermost, 
 the effect is agreeable. For, though there is a repetition of the same 
 linear form, the spaces between the semicircles are bounded by 
 curvilinear angles, which produce a pleasing contrast. But if the 
 semicircles are so arranged that the curves flow into each other, and 
 so take opposite directions that is, with alternating convexities and 
 concavities the eye is chiefly occupied with the line, the effect of 
 which is thus equally balanced between the variety of direction and 
 the similarity and equality of the curves. Though the effect, how- 
 ever, is agreeable, the pleasure does not equal that which is produced 
 by the undulating or waving line, which is made up of a succession of 
 segments of ellipses. 
 
 So much, then, for lines. But there are forms of a composite 
 character which excite the feeling of Beauty by reason of a profounder 
 symmetry than is at first sight discoverable, a symmetry the nature
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 
 
 of which may afford to the sesthetical student a subject of very 
 interesting speculation. 
 
 This higher kind of Beauty of Form may be perceived and 
 delighted in without any knowledge of its source ; but there must be 
 a certain organization of the sensorium for this effect. As it is a 
 well-known fact that some persons are insusceptible to the enjoyment 
 of the more complex forms of harmony of sound, so there are 
 subtleties of symmetry beyond the range of ordinary perception. 
 There are individuals who have not the sesthetical constitution which 
 would enable them to recognize and enjoy the exquisite proportions of 
 the Venus of Melos, or of the portico of the Parthenon, just as others 
 are dead to the harmonies of Beethoven. 
 
 I think I may appeal with confidence to the experience of all who 
 have felt great delight in architecture and sculpture as to the fact of 
 there being an intuitive perception of harmony, or a feeling of satis- 
 faction and admiration, arising in the mind, on the contemplation of a 
 building in its totality, very different from the enjoyment of the 
 beauty of separate parts. A great deal of the pleasure, and indeed 
 the most common gratification, is that which is derived from parts. 
 We see a cathedral, and talk of the beauty of such a window, or such 
 an arch, or transept, or cluster of pillars. Our admiration of the 
 building, as a whole, is very different. Long before I had the least 
 idea of the cause of my enjoyment, I remember the peculiar delight 
 with which I looked at Salisbury Cathedral as a whole. It was 
 not to my consciousness resolvable into an aggregate or succession 
 of pleasant impressions from spire, tower, arches, buttresses, and 
 windows ; but it was an indefinable sense of harmony of proportion. 
 Common as such feelings must have been, it is remarkable that till of 
 late they have not been satisfactorily accounted for. One source of 
 the pleasure has been discovered and elucidated by the genius and 
 the patient investigations of Mr. Hay. The following observation had 
 been thrown out by Sir I. Newton in a letter to Mr. Harrington : 
 " I am inclined to believe some general laws of the Creator prevailed 
 with respect to the agreeable or unpleasing affections of all our 
 senses ; at least the supposition does not derogate from the wisdom 
 or power of God, and seems highly consonant to the simplicity of the 
 microcosm in general." This was in answer to a suggestion of Mr. 
 Harrington's, that the proportions in architecture are coincident with 
 the harmonic ratios in sound. But his attempts to realize the idea
 
 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 were founded on lineal measurements, and they were unsuccessful. 
 Mr. Hay, having found that the harmony of forms could not be 
 explained by ratios, derived from, lineal measurements, was led to 
 inquire whether the clue might not be found in the proportions of the 
 component angles. The result, after many years of acute observation 
 and unwearied study, has been, that a form is beautiful when the 
 space which it encloses can be analyzed into angles which bear pro- 
 portions to each other analogous to those which subsist between the 
 notes of music. The basis of harmony is, that, when sounds mingle 
 agreeably, the vibrations of which they are severally composed bear 
 such a relation to each other as is capable of a very simple numerical 
 expression. Thus, the octave is 2 to 1 ; the dominant 2 to 3 ; the 
 mediant 4 to 5. All the harmonics are composed of whole numbers 
 in relation to the unit as i, ^, 1, &c. These harmonics again corres- 
 pond to the points or nodes at which a string in vibration spontaneously 
 divides itself. 
 
 Indeed, all the numbers in which musical notes are expressed 
 denote relations of physical agencies. Thus, the octave, or eighth note 
 of the musical scale, is the double of the first in this respect, viz. 
 that in a second of time the octave has double the number of vibra- 
 tions which belong to the fundamental note. The notes composing 
 the diatonic scale lie between the fundamental note and its octave; 
 and the fractions belonging to them denote the relative lengths of the 
 string, and, inversely, the proportionate number of vibrations. Thus, 
 the octave is the sound of half the string, and the vibrations are as 
 2:1. Take C of the middle scale. The second note D is to C as 
 8 : 9, being the sound of -- of the string. While C is vibrating 8 
 times D vibrates 9. The vibrations of the third note E bear to those 
 of C the ratio of 5 to 4 ; the length of the string being A. The fourth 
 note F is sounded by f of the string, and the vibrations relatively to 
 C are as 4 to 3. G is the fifth note, and belongs to - of the string ; 
 and the ratio of its vibrations, in relation to the fundamental note, are 
 as 3 to 2. The sixth note A has |- of the length, and therefore its 
 vibrations are as 5 to 3. The seventh note has *fa t with a corres- 
 ponding ratio of vibration. The eighth is the octave C and completes 
 the diatonic scale. Mr. Hay has found it convenient for his analogy 
 to adopt the old German scale, and take in B flat, which is A, and 
 called natural in the old scale, while our B natural was formerly 
 designated H,
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 
 
 If we follow up the notes into the higher octaves, successively, we 
 shall find that all the numbers are multiples of 2, 3, 5, and 7. There 
 are no other primes than these. Here is a scale of four octaves : 
 
 ;(i) 
 
 i C 
 
 Super- Mediants. Subdomi- Dominants. Subme- Subtonics. Semi-sub- Tonics. 
 tonics. nants. diants. tonics. 
 
 U 8 ) 
 D 
 
 (I) 
 E 
 
 (I) 
 F 
 
 (i) 
 
 G 
 
 (i) 
 
 A 
 
 (I) 
 B 
 
 (ft) 
 H 
 
 (i)' 
 c 
 
 II. 
 
 in. 
 
 IV. 
 
 [(i)* (j)' (i) (i) (i)* (A) 
 
 <2 
 
 
 
 / 
 
 p 
 
 a 
 
 6 
 
 ft 
 
 c 
 
 (i) 
 
 (*) 
 
 (A) 
 
 (i)* 
 
 (ft) 
 
 (*)* 
 
 (ft) 
 
 (1> 
 
 <2 
 
 e 
 
 7 
 
 9 
 
 a 
 
 b 
 
 h 
 
 c 
 
 (i)* 
 
 (A)* 
 
 (i) 
 
 (A) 
 
 (A) 
 
 (V,)* 
 
 (ft)* 
 
 (A)' 
 
 / 
 
 It is curious to observe, in passing, how the prime numbers corres- 
 pond to the relations of unity and variety. Two is 1 + 1, and therefore 
 the type of unity and equality. Three is 2 + 1 ; the first uneven 
 number, and the type of variety. Five is the combination of the two 
 types and seven also. We have remarked that harmonious notes 
 vibrate relatively to each other in ratios of very simple numerical 
 expression, and we have instanced those of the octave, dominant, and 
 mediant, in relation to the fundamental note. In comparing the inter- 
 mediate notes with these, and with each other, the same law regulates 
 the degree of consonance and dissonance. The higher the numbers, 
 the less is the harmony. Thus C is to D as 8 : 9, and the sound is 
 disagreeable ; and D sounded together with E is still more displeasing, 
 the ratio being 9:10; but D with G is quite harmonious, being 3 : 4, 
 and so on. The following table exhibits some of these combinations. 
 Let any one sound these notes together on the piano or the harmonium, 
 and his ear will at once appreciate the truth of the statement, that 
 harmony of sound and simplicity of numerical ratio go together : 
 
 C 
 C 
 C 
 D 
 C 
 E 
 G 
 C 
 C 
 E 
 B 
 B 
 
 c 
 G 
 
 B nut. 
 E, F 
 G 
 
 B flat 
 B flat 
 D, A 
 D 
 
 B flat 
 nat. : c 
 
 A, D 
 
 G 
 
 1 
 2 
 3 
 3 
 4 
 5 
 6 
 7 
 8 
 9 
 
 14 
 15 
 
 2 
 3 
 4 
 5 
 5 
 6 
 7 
 8 
 9 
 
 10 
 15 
 16
 
 10 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 It has been the attempt of many investigators to discover harmonic 
 ratios in the measurements of beautiful forms, both in nature and in 
 art; but the results proved unsatisfactory when the measurements 
 were all linear, or comparisons of heights, and lengths, and breadths. 
 Mr. Hay was the first to conceive the idea of measuring and testing 
 the proportions of component angles in such forms. The working out 
 of his idea, in a very large number of instances, has been attended 
 with the most gratifying success. With some of these results I shall 
 endeavour to make my readers acquainted. Those who wish to pursue 
 the inquiry further will, of course, study the works of Mr. Hay. 
 
 It will be necessary, however, to premise a few words respecting 
 the geometrical figures into which beautiful forms may be resolved. 
 The chief of these are the triangle, the rectangle, the circle, the 
 ellipse, and the composite ellipse. The varieties of these may be 
 designated by some one angle, which is therefore the governing angle. 
 The equilateral triangle has its angles equal, each being 60. But, if 
 the triangle be bisected, it gives two right-angled scalene triangles 
 equal to each other. A scalene triangle thus formed contains the 
 angles 30, 60, 90. It is called the triangle of ^ the smaller angle 
 being one-third of a right angle. And any scalene right-angled 
 triangle is designated by the proportion which the smaller angle bears 
 to the right angle. Thus, should the smaller angle be 22 30', the 
 triangle would be called the triangle of ; of 18, i; and so on. 
 The isosceles right-angled triangle is half of a square made by the 
 diagonal. The two smaller angles are equal, each being 45, and 
 therefore bearing to 90 the ratio of 1 : 2. This triangle is then a 
 triangle of . 
 
 Rectangles are designated by the angles formed by their diagonals. 
 The square is a rectangle of ; other rectangles may be rectangles of 
 }> *> !> &c., according to the ratios of the smaller angles of their com- 
 ponent triangles to the right angle. (See Plate I.) 
 
 A circle may be inscribed within a square or a square within a 
 circle. The circle is therefore a curvilinear form of , being governed 
 by the angle of 45, which is a tonic angle. The ellipse is of very 
 variable dimensions measurable by the triangle formed by the semi- 
 axes, and a line joining their extremities. If this triangle be governed 
 by an angle of 30, the ellipse is an ellipse of ^, or a dominant ellipse. 
 Parallelograms and ellipses are correlative like the square and the 
 circle. (See Plate H)
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 11 
 
 These proportions have been derived, as it will be remembered, 
 from the right angle. According to Mr. Hay's system of harmonic 
 proportion any angle may be taken as the fundamental angle : but 
 the other angles must bear proportions expressible in numbers corres- 
 ponding to those which belong to the ratios in music ; and angles, 
 parallelograms, and curves, are spoken of as dominants, mediants, 
 tonics, supertonics, &c., as indicating those ratios to the fundamental 
 angle. They bear also harmonious or discordant ratios to each other, 
 analogous to those which have been already pointed out in the several 
 notes of the diatonic scale. 
 
 We are now prepared for the illustration of these principles by 
 the results of an analysis of certain acknowledged forms of beauty. 
 
 The symmetrical beauty of the human face and head is mainly 
 dependent on the bony structures. The beauty of expression, or the 
 beauty belonging to variety, results from the action of the muscles 
 in the play of the features ; but with the former are we now chiefly 
 occupied. The configuration of the cranium approaches more or less 
 to that of a globe ; and the configuration of the face to that of a 
 prolate spheroid. The circle will represent the former, the ellipse the 
 latter. A diagram may be constructed in which the circle and ellipse 
 shall have a certain relation to each other as to their diameters, and in 
 which lines drawn from one extremity of the major axis of the ellipse, 
 and making harmonic angles with it, shall intersect the curve of the 
 ellipse at points which mark the most important divisions of the face 
 and head, and thus lay the foundations of a beauty which corresponds 
 to that of the finest specimens of Greek sculpture. I take the follow- 
 ing description, and the explanatory plate, from Mr. Hay's last work, 
 "The Science of Beauty," pp. 5860. 
 
 " The angles which govern the form and proportions of the human 
 head and countenance are, with the right angle, a series of seven, 
 which, from the simplicity of their ratios to each other, are calculated 
 to produce the most perfect concord. It consists of the right angle 
 and its following parts : 
 
 Tonic. Dominant. Mediant. Subtonic. 
 
 (i) (i) (J) (t) 
 
 a) CD 
 
 " These angles, and the figures which belong to them, are thus 
 arranged :
 
 12 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 " The vertical line A B (Plate IH. fig. 2) represents the full length 
 of the head and face. Taking this line as the greater axis of an 
 ellipse of Q-), such an ellipse is described around it. Through A the 
 lines A G, A K, A L, A M, and A N, are drawn on each side of the 
 line A B, making, with the vertical, respectively the angles of (4-), (), 
 (I), (), and (i). Through the points G, K, L, M, and N, where 
 these straight lines meet the curved line of the ellipse, horizontal lines 
 are drawn by which the following isosceles triangles are formed, 
 A G G, A K K, A L L, A M M, and A N N. From the centre X of 
 the equilateral triangle A G G the curvilinear figure of (), viz., the 
 circle, is described circumscribing that triangle. 
 
 " The curvilinear plane figures of () and (4-), respectively, repre- 
 sent the solid bodies of which they are sections, viz., a sphere and a 
 prolate spheroid. These bodies, from the manner in which they are 
 here placed, are partially amalgamated, as shewn in figures 1 and 3 
 of the same plate, thus representing the form of the human head and 
 countenance, both in their external appearance and osseous structure, 
 more correctly than they could be represented by any other geome- 
 trical figures. Thus the angles of (^) and (|-) determine the typical 
 form. 
 
 "From each of the points u and n, where A M cuts G G on both 
 sides of A B, a circle is described through the points p and q, where 
 A K cuts G G on both sides of A B, and with the same radius a circle 
 is described from the point a, where K K cuts A B. 
 
 " The circle u and n determine the position and size of the eyeballs, 
 and the circle a the width of the nose, as also the horizontal width of 
 the mouth. 
 
 " The lines G G and K K also determine the length of the join- 
 ings of the ear to the head. The lines L L and M M determine the 
 vertical width of the mouth and lips when at perfect repose, and the 
 line N N the superior edge of the chin. Thus simply are the features 
 arranged and proportioned on the facial surface." 
 
 That this theoretical calculation by Mr. Hay will bear an experi- 
 mental test I proved, in a very interesting manner, not long ago. I 
 took the height of a lady's head, measured from the vertex to a 
 horizontal line, drawn at right angles to it from the termination of the 
 chin. This lady is remarkable for the classical beauty of form in her 
 face and head. Upon this line I constructed a diagram, representing 
 the proportions of the profile, as in figure 3 that is, describing a
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 
 
 circle, a dominant ellipse, and the angles of %, , , , and . The 
 features were sketched in, so as to conform to a Greek model, by my 
 daughter, who was not at all familiar with the lady's face. When 
 the diagram was afterwards applied to the living face and head, the 
 correspondence of the general contour and of the several divisions, 
 forehead, nose, and mouth, was singularly close, and yet the only 
 measurement taken from life was, as I have said, the height from 
 vertex to chin. 
 
 The importance of the human figure as a type of Beauty has been 
 recognized in all times. Yitruvius says: "No building can possess 
 the attributes of composition in which symmetry and proportion are 
 disregarded ; nor unless there exists that perfect conformation of parts 
 which may be observed in a well-formed human being." In a letter 
 addressed by Michael Angelo to Cosmo I. there is the following pas- 
 sage : " The nose, planted in the middle of the face, does not depend 
 on one or the other eye ; but the one hand must necessarily resemble 
 the other, and the one eye should answer to the other, and also rela- 
 tively to the corresponding parts of the face in which they are placed ; 
 so the members of architecture may be said to depend in a certain 
 sense on those of the human body. He who is not a good master of 
 the human figure, and especially of anatomy, cannot comprehend the 
 principle I insist upon."* 
 
 To ascertain the due proportions of the human figure various 
 measurements have been proposed ; and although they have all yielded 
 some practical success, as guides to drawing and composition, yet they 
 do not impress the mind as having been founded upon any law involv- 
 ing unity of design, or harmonizing with any other facts in the order 
 of nature. Many of the modes of measurement have been very 
 empirical ; almost absurdly so. Thus the whole height of the body is 
 the length of the foot so many times repeated, or so many heads ; and 
 the proportions of the head are so many noses : and so on. 
 
 Carus takes a third of the moveable part of the vertebral column 
 as the unit of measurement ; but, as his able reviewer in the Quarterly 
 Review (1856) remarks, "the choice is certainly arbitrary, and the 
 grounds by which he justifies it are fanciful;" though the reviewer 
 adds, " it supplies us with a convenient unit of measurement, and one 
 to which the dimensions of many important parts are closely and very. 
 
 * Harford's Life of Michael Angelo, vol. ii. p. 185.
 
 14 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 simply adjusted." But, according to Mr. Hay's theory, the same 
 principle of measurement which develops beautiful proportions in the 
 human head is not only applicable to the whole figure also, but it 
 likewise yields equally satisfactory results when applied to beautiful 
 forms in architecture and in fictile art. 
 
 " The manner of applying this system in imparting proportions to 
 a representation of the human figure, and thereby synthetically develop- 
 ing in it the operation of the law in question, is to adopt, as a 
 fundamental angle, either ^, T 8 ^, , ^, -^, T 7 5 , or ^ of the semicircle, 
 according to whether feminine beauty or masculine power may be 
 the required characteristic of the figure to be represented. For, as in 
 architecture, some structures being designed for temples of worship, 
 and others for castles of defence, their fitness for these purposes will 
 materially affect their respective aesthetic proportions ; so likewise in 
 the human figure, the chief characteristic in the typical female form 
 being pure and simple beauty, while that of the typical male form is 
 beauty modified by massive strength ; the basis on which each of the 
 figures is constructed might be presumed to have reference to the 
 sensations it would awaken the one of loveliness, the other of strength. 
 Yet the relative proportions of the parts in each case ought to develop 
 the same aesthetic laws, although in different modes. Such are the 
 qualities of fitness which characterize the beauty of the Venus, as 
 compared with that of the Hercules of the ancients, and render these 
 statues perfect types of the sexes. 
 
 "In the above series of angles, the smallest (| the semicircle) 
 gives the proportions of the Venus, and the largest (4 the semicircle) 
 those of the Hercules ; so that the intermediate angles maybe adapted 
 to all intermediate classes of proportions, such as were imparted by 
 the ancient Greeks to the statues of their other deities and their heroes. 
 
 " The angle, adopted as a fundamental or tonic angle (which we 
 shall in the present case suppose to be the first or the semicircle), is 
 divided agreeably to the spontaneous division of the monochord into 
 the following : 
 
 Tonic 
 
 Dominant 
 
 Mediant 
 
 Sub-tonic 
 
 Super-tonic 
 
 angles. 
 
 angles. 
 
 angles. 
 
 angles. 
 
 angle. 
 
 (0 
 
 (i) 
 
 
 
 
 (i) 
 
 (4) 
 
 0) 
 
 (D 
 
 
 (i) 
 
 (A) 
 
 (Js) 
 
 (W 
 
 (s) 
 
 " From the extremities of a vertical line of a given length, repre- 
 senting the full height of the intended figure (whether its dimensions
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 15 
 
 are to be those of a small gem, a colossal statue, or anything inter- 
 mediate in size), a series of oblique lines are drawn, making with it 
 the above angles ; then another vertical line is drawn, the situation of 
 which is determined by the intersection of one of the tonic lines, drawn 
 from one extremity, with one of the dominant lines drawn from the 
 other ; and to complete the rectilinear portion of the diagram, a series 
 of horizontal lines are added, whose situations are also determined by 
 the intersections of the oblique lines. With this rectilinear portion, a 
 series of curvilinear figures are associated, and these belong to the 
 tonic, the dominant, and the mediant angles, and their sizes and situa- 
 tions are determined by the vertical, horizontal, and oblique lines 
 already drawn. Thus simply may diagrams of the human figure be 
 produced of any required dimensions or characteristic proportions."* 
 The diagrams of Plate IV. illustrate the following facts ; firstly, 
 That on a given line, the figure is developed as to its principal points 
 entirely by lines drawn either from the extremities of this line or from 
 some obvious and determined localities ; and secondly, That the angles 
 which these lines make with the given line are all simple multiples or 
 sub-multiples of some given fundamental angle, or bear to it a propor- 
 tion, admissible under the most simple relations, such as those which 
 constitute the scale of music. The diagrams Plate Y. illustrate the 
 curves of the outline of the human figure, viewed in front and in 
 profile. This contour may be resolved into a series of ellipses, 
 governed by the same simple angles ; and these ellipses, like the 
 lines, are inclined to the first given line by angles which are simple 
 multiples or sub-multiples of the given fundamental angle. 
 
 " Manner in which these curves are disposed in the lateral outline 
 -of the human figure as viewed from the front (figure 1, Plate V.) : 
 
 Points. Curves. 
 
 Head from 1 to 2 (J) 
 
 Face " 2 " 3 (J) 
 
 Neck " 3 4 (J) 
 
 Shoulder " 4 " 6 (i) 
 
 " " 6 8 (J) 
 
 Trunk " 9 " 15 (J) 
 
 " " 21 " 24 (J) 
 
 Outer surface of thigh and leg- " 15 "20 (J) 
 
 Inner surface of thigh and leg- " 25 " 30 (J) 
 
 Outer surface of the arm - " 8 " 33 (J) 
 
 Inner surface of the arm - " 9 " 36 (J) 
 
 * Hay's Natural Principles of Beauty, pp. 9 11.
 
 16 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 "Manner in which they are disposed in the outline of the human 
 figure as viewed in profile (figure 2, Plate V.) : 
 
 Points. Curves. 
 
 Front of neck .... from 1 to 2 (J) 
 
 ' " trunk - - - " 2 " 10 (J) 
 
 Back of neck - - - " 16 " 18 () 
 
 " " trunk - . - " 18 " 23 (J) ' 
 
 " " " - - - - " 23 " 25 (J) 
 
 Front of thigh and leg - " 11 " 13 (J) 
 
 " - - 13 " 15 (J) 
 
 Back of thigh and leg - " 25 " 32 () 
 
 Front of the arm - . " 33 " 37 (J) 
 
 Back of the arm - - " 38 " 40 (I) 
 
 Foot ..... " " () 
 
 "In order to exemplify more clearly the manner in which these 
 various curves appear in the outline of the figure, I give in Plate VI. 
 the whole curvilinear figures, complete, to which these portions belong 
 that form the outline of the sides of the head, neck, and trunk, and 
 of the outer surface of the thighs and legs. 
 
 "The axes of these ellipses form angles with the vertical line, 
 which bear the following harmonic ratios to the right angle : 
 
 Parts of Angle to which the Angle of inclination 
 
 Outline. curve belongs of major axis of conre. 
 
 From Ito 2 ... (J) ... (0) 
 
 " 2 " 3 ... (J) ... (0) 
 
 " 3 " 4 ... (J) ... (0) 
 
 " * " 5 --. (J) .-- (|) 
 
 " 5 6 ... (i) ... (|) 
 
 " 6 8 - - . () ... (}) 
 
 " 9 ' ; 10 - - - (J) - - - (I) 
 
 " 10 " 11 --- (J) ... (J) 
 
 " 11 " 13 ... (J) ... (.^) 
 
 " 13 "15 - - ... (J) - ... - (I) 
 
 " 15 " 16 ... (J) ... () 
 
 " 16 " 18 ... (J) - -. - (?) 
 
 " 18 " 19 ... (J) ... (i) 
 
 19 20 - - . (J) - . . 
 
 " Thus there is a perfect harmony of combination in the propor- 
 tions of the human figure, associated with as perfect a harmony of 
 succession in its beautifully undulated outline, the curves of which 
 rise and fall in ever-varying degree, and melt harmoniously into one 
 another like the notes of a pleasing melody."* 
 
 Op. cit. pp. 2022.
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 17 
 
 Mr. Hay, in conjunction with two gentlemen of eminent authority 
 in science, Professor Kelland, Professor of Mathematics in the Uni- 
 versity of Edinburgh, and Professor Goodsir, Professor of Anatomy 
 in the same University, applied this system of measurement to the 
 living model, and to those exquisite remains of Greek sculpture the 
 Venus de' Medici and the Venus of Melos ; and the result was quite 
 satisfactory, as showing the agreement of the proportions of the 
 several figures with those which are defined in the harmonic theory. 
 
 The proportions in works of architecture may be examined on the 
 same principles as those which have been applied to the human face 
 and figure. Let us follow Mr. Hay, first, in his examination of the 
 front portico of the Parthenon of Athens. " Of all the monuments," 
 says Mr. Kinnaird, " of ancient and modern magnificence which have 
 been within our view, the grandeur of this (the Parthenon) alone 
 surpassed anticipation, leaving an impression on the mind similar to, 
 but more profound, than the charms of an harmonious fugue or of a 
 rapturous effusion of poetry." 
 
 " The angles which govern the proportions of this beautiful ele- 
 vation are the following harmonic parts of the right angle : 
 
 Tonic Dominant Mediant Subtonic Supertonic 
 
 Angles. Angles. Angles. Angles. Angles. 
 
 (i) (4) tt> (*) (4) 
 
 a) (i) (W (A) 
 
 "In Plate VII. I give a diagram of its rectilinear orthography, 
 which is simply constructed by lines drawn either horizontally, verti- 
 cally, or obliquely, which latter make with either of the former lines 
 one or other of the harmonic angles in the above series. For example, 
 the horizontal line A B represents the length of the base or surface of 
 the upper step of the substructure of the building. The line A E, 
 which makes an angle of () with the horizontal, determines the 
 height of the colonnade. The line A D, which makes an angle of (i) 
 with the horizontal, determines the height of the portico, exclusive of 
 the pediment. The line A C, which makes an angle of (4-) with the 
 horizontal, determines the height of the portico, including the pedi- 
 ment. The line G D, which makes an angle of (1) with the horizontal, 
 determines the form of the pediment. The lines E Z and L Y, which 
 respectively make angles of (-j'g-) and (yL) with the horizontal, deter- 
 
 c
 
 18 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 mine the breadth of the architrave, frieze, and cornice. The line 
 v n u, which makes an angle of (^) with the verticle, determines the 
 breadth of the triglyphs. The line t d, which makes an angle of (), 
 determines the breadth of the metops. The lines c b r f, and a t, 
 which make each an angle of Q-) with the vertical, determine the 
 width of the five centre intercolumniations. The line z k, which 
 makes an angle of (^) with the vertical, determines the width of the 
 two remaining intercolumniations. The lines c s, q x, and y h, each 
 of which makes an angle of (^) with the vertical, determine the 
 diameters of the three columns on each side of the centre. The line 
 w I, which makes an angle of (^) with the vertical, determines the 
 diameter of the two remaining or corner columns. 
 
 " In all this, the length and breadth of the parts are determined 
 by horizontal and vertical lines, which are necessarily at right angles 
 with each other, and the positions of which are determined by one or 
 other of the lines making the harmonic angles above enumerated. 
 
 " Now, the lengths and breadths thus so simply determined by 
 these few angles have been proved to be correct by their agreement 
 with the most careful measurements which could possibly be made of 
 this exquisite specimen of formative art. These measurements were 
 obtained by the 'Society of Diletanti,' London, who, expressly for 
 that purpose, sent Mr. F. C. Penrose, a highly educated architect, to 
 Athens, where he remained for about five months, engaged in the 
 execution of this interesting commission, the results of which are now 
 published in a magnificent volume by the Society.* The agreement 
 was so striking, that Mr. Penrose has been publicly thanked by an 
 eminent man of science for bearing testimony to the truth of my 
 theory, who in doing so observes, 'The dimensions which he (Mr. 
 Penrose) gives are to me the surest verification of the theory I could 
 have desired. The minute discrepancies form that very element of 
 practical incertitude, both as to execution and direct measurement, 
 which always prevails in materialising a mathemetical calculation 
 made under such conditions.' " 
 
 After a similar illustration of the proportions of the portico of the 
 Temple of Theseus, Mr. Hay goes on to remark : 
 
 " The foregoing examples being both horizontal rectangular com- 
 positions, the proportions of their principal parts have necessarily been 
 determined by lines drawn from the extremities of the base, making 
 
 " * Longman and Co., London."
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 19 
 
 angles with the horizontal line, and forming thereby the diagonals of 
 the various rectangles into which, in their leading features, they are 
 necessarily resolved. But the example I am now about to give is of 
 another character, being a vertical pyramidal composition, and conse- 
 quently the proportions of its principal parts are determined by the 
 angles which the oblique lines make with the vertical line representing 
 the height of the elevation, and forming a series of isosceles triangles ; 
 for the isosceles triangle is the type of all pyramidal composition. 
 
 " This third example is the east end of Lincoln Cathedral, a Gothic 
 structure, which is acknowledged to be one of the finest specimens of 
 that style of architecture existing in this country. 
 
 " The angles which govern the proportions of this elevation are 
 the following harmonic parts of the right angle : 
 
 Tonic. Dominant. Mediant. Subtonic. Supertonic. 
 
 (i) (*) <j) (*) (i) 
 
 tt) (I) (I'D) 0) 
 
 (A) 
 
 " In Plate YUI. I give a diagram of the vertical, horizontal, 
 and oblique lines, which compose the orthography of this beautiful 
 elevation. 
 
 " The line A B represents the full height of this structure. The 
 line A C, which makes an angle of (5) with the vertical, determines 
 the width of the design, the tops of the aisle windows, and the bases 
 of the pediments on the inner buttresses ; A Q-, () with the vertical, 
 that of the outer buttress ; A F, (-J-) with the vertical, that of the space 
 between the outer and inner buttresses and the width of the great 
 centre window ; and A E, ( j 1 ^) with vertical, that of both the inner 
 buttresses and the space between these. A H, which makes (-j) with 
 the vertical, determines the form of the pediment of the centre, and 
 the full height of the base and surbase. A I, which makes (i) with 
 the vertical, determines the form of the pediment of the smaller 
 gables, the base of the pediment on the outer buttress, the base of the 
 ornamental recess between the inner and outer buttresses, the spring 
 of the arch of the centre window, the tops of the pediments on the 
 inner buttresses, and the spring of the arch of the upper window. 
 A K, which makes (), determines the height of the outer buttress ; 
 and A Z, which makes () with the horizontal, determines that of the 
 inner buttresses. For the reasons already given, I need not here go 
 into further detail.* It is, however, worthy of remark in this place, 
 
 " * For further details, see ' Harmonic Law of Nature,' i-c."
 
 20 THE PKINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 that, notwithstanding the great difference which exists between the 
 style of composition in this Gothic design, and in that of the east end 
 of the Parthenon, the harmonic elements upon which the orthographic 
 beauty of the one depends are almost identical with those of the 
 other."* 
 
 The mouldings of the Parthenon have contours composed of curves 
 derived from the composite ellipse a figure so named ' ' bcause it is 
 composed simply of arcs of various ellipses, harmonically flowing into 
 each other. The composite ellipse, when drawn systematically upon 
 the isosceles triangle, resembles closely parabolic and hyperbolic curves 
 only differing from these inasmuch as it possesses the essential 
 quality of circumscribing harmonically one of the elementary recti- 
 linear figures employed in architecture, while those of the parabola 
 and hyperbola, as I have just observed, are merely curves of motion, 
 and, consequently, can never harmonically circumscribe or be resolved 
 into any regular figure." 
 
 For the description of this figure, I must refer my readers to Mr. 
 
 Hay's works. 
 
 
 
 In the analysis of the proportions of the east front of Lincoln, it 
 will have been seen that the measurements have been made by means 
 of lines drawn at certain angles from the extremity of a line represent- 
 ing the height, these lines being inclusive of the principal members 
 of the building, architecturally considered. But I am inclined to think 
 that the harmonies most felt by the eye, in traversing a Gothic 
 building, are those which result from the leading features, that is to 
 say, from the ratios in which the angles, which govern those parts, 
 combine with each other. There may be a structural harmony, as in 
 the skeleton of the human form, independent of the proportions of the 
 curves which make the contour, but it is the contour which takes the 
 eye. So also in Gothic architecture the forms of the most prominent 
 parts of the building the spire, the tower, the windows, the pedi- 
 menls, the buttresses, and the proportions which their angles severally 
 bear to each other as divisions of a right angle are what dwell on the 
 mind Thus I find in Salisbury Cathedral a great prevalence of 
 dominants and supertonics, which give a ratio 3:4. The governing 
 angle of a Gothic window I take to be that which is formed by a line 
 drawn from the apex to the spring of the arch, and a vertical line 
 
 * Hay's Science of Beauty, pp. 40 i5.
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 21 
 
 which is drawn from the apex and bisects the window. Another line, 
 drawn from the same point to the extremity of the line which marks 
 the base of the window, gives an angle, which, compared with the 
 former, determines the proportions of the whole window. The most 
 beautiful windows are those of the Early English and the Decorated 
 styles. Their ratios I find to be either 1 : 2 or 2 : 3. 
 
 I cannot conclude this section without bringing forward what 
 appears to me to be a very interesting confirmation of Mr. Hay's views 
 of proportion. When reading an admirable biography of Michael 
 Angelo, lately published by Mr. Harford, I was struck with one of 
 the plates which represents St. Peter's as designed by M. Angelo, and 
 contrasted with St. Peter's as it now stands. The most superficial 
 observer cannot fail to notice the superiority of the former, both as to 
 grandeur of effect and as to beauty of proportion. The eye passes, 
 by an easy and gradual transition, from the curves of the vast dome, 
 through those of the smaller cupolas, to the rectilinear forms of the 
 fa9ade, which present a most harmonious combination of variety with 
 unity. The principal cause of the inferiority of the present design is 
 the elongation of the nave, which thrusts the portico and fagade to a 
 great distance from the dome. This elongation "was still more fatal," 
 says Mr. Harford, " to the exterior beauty of the church, than to that 
 of the interior ; for the cupola, on approaching the grand fagade, is 
 cut through in perspective by its upper story, and is therefore half 
 concealed from the eye, instead of triumphing as the sublime and pre- 
 siding feature of the whole edifice."* 
 
 As the inequality of these two designs was so remarkable, it 
 occurred to me that it would offer a good opportunity of testing Mr. 
 Hay's system of diagonal ratios. I therefore, after including the 
 curves in parallelograms, made a series of diagonals through all the 
 principal parts of the building in the two designs. The resultant 
 ratios of the angles afforded a most satisfactory confirmation of Mr. 
 Hay's harmonic system. 
 
 In Michael Angelo's design they were 2:3, 3:4, 1:2, and 9 : 10. 
 
 In St. Peter's as it is, the ratios came out thus; 7 : 11, 7 : 18, 
 15 : 24, and 7 : 15. 
 
 Now, after considering these several instances in which the measure- 
 ments of forms of acknowledged beauty correspond so wonderfully 
 
 * Harford's Life of Michael Angelo, vol. ii., page 98.
 
 22 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 with harmonic ratios, I do not see that, even if no further explanation 
 were to be given, we could avoid the conclusion that the results which 
 have been stated are not merely accidental, but that they rest on the 
 nature of things, and that to Mr. Hay belongs the rare merit of 
 having been the first to bring sesthetical observation within the range 
 of definite science at least with reference to Beauty of Form. 
 
 For the following attempt to explain the pleasure derived from 
 Beauty of Form upon physiological principles I alone am responsible, 
 though I am happy to say that Mr. Hay concurs in it. 
 
 If it be allowed that certain arrangements of lines in figures which 
 give rise to the feeling of symmetrical beauty may be resolved into 
 certain geometrical and numerical harmonies, we have still to inquire 
 why these latent harmonies create pleasure. The numerical relation 
 of sounds has been known for ages ; but as to forms, many generations 
 of men have continued to draw delight and admiration from them 
 without the slightest suspicion of any such relations or proportions. 
 Without carrying the analysis farther, I think we are entitled to say 
 that, if in objects which are undeniably beautiful there are found those 
 remarkable proportions in space which correspond with those propor- 
 tions in time, which are known to give pleasure to the ear, such 
 proportions must have a correlation to those ultimate actions in the 
 sensorium which precede the feeling of visual pleasure. Of the nature 
 of those actions we are at present ignorant. But there is a well- 
 ascertained source of satisfaction or enjoyment which is closely con- 
 cerned with these sesthetical feelings, and to which I have more than 
 once alluded, though slightly. Our eyes trace lines and measure 
 spaces by means of muscular actions. Neither a general survey of an 
 object, nor a minute examination of it, is possible, no curves can be 
 followed, nor spaces traversed without muscular movements of the 
 eyeball. Muscular action gives birth to pleasurable or uneasy feelings 
 seldom, however, in the muscles themselves according as they are 
 accomplished with ease or difficulty. Rhythmical muscular action is 
 more easy and agreeable than that which is irregular. 
 
 I have already spoken of the displeasing effect of an irregular 
 jagged line ; part of the discomfort of which may be owing to the 
 sudden checks and inequalities of the muscular movements of the 
 eye. Let any one merely follow a series of horizontal lines drawn on 
 paper, and then try a series which traverse the page in angles which
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 23 
 
 bear no proportion to each other, and he will inevitably be bhe subject 
 of a feeling of fatigue and disgust. 
 
 Geometrical and arithmetical proportions govern the material 
 universe. It is not likely that our organs of sensation should afford 
 an exception to the general fact. And when we can describe any 
 of our experiences in terms which admit of numerical expression, we 
 not only attain to accuracy of representation, but we are also bringing 
 the fact within the scope of the most universal laws. The Ego sent 
 into the world to feel pleasure is set in tune to the various harmonies 
 in nature, and to thrill with responsive pleasure. 
 
 Regularity of form belongs to our most simple and ordinary 
 arrangements in daily life. Every article of manufacture exhibits it. 
 Without it space would be occupied at the greatest disadvantage. 
 Confusion would be inevitable. There would be no practical circum- 
 scription of space, nor remembrance of place. The process of fitting 
 or mutual adaptation, can only be secured by regularity of form. And 
 the same applies to the equal and regular divisions of time ; the 
 whole mechanism of life depends upon it. 
 
 As an equal or proportionate division of space is necessary to 
 method, so also a like division of time is essential to orderly movement. 
 If men were not to march in time they could not be kept together in 
 space ; that is, the groups or companies could not be maintained in 
 the requisite configurations. Moreover action is easier, as we have 
 already remarked, when performed in strict adaptation to regular 
 divisions of time, as in marching to music, or in working to a song. 
 
 Our neurological conditions at first sight seem antagonistic to, or 
 inconsistent with, mechanical arrangements. We talk of spiritual 
 forces superseding the mechanical arrangements of matter : but the 
 probability is that even those forces obey the same laws to which the 
 whole world is subordinated. Thoughts, sentiments, and emotions 
 do not seem measurable in space and time. But the sesthetical arts 
 are those which bring the operations of the mind into contact or co- 
 existence with rhythmical sensations or actions. What is the difference 
 between poetry and prose? The thoughts, images, and emotions 
 called forth may be identical. But in poetry there is a measured 
 arrangement of the sounds of which the words are constituent. This 
 pleasure of sense is combined with the pleasure of thought and 
 emotion, and makes poetry sesthetical. 
 
 As vision is a muscular as well as sensory action, it is highly
 
 24 THE PKINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 probable, as we have already remarked, that the movements of the 
 eye are most agreeable when under regular and rhythmical direction, 
 though we may be quite unconscious of such regularity of action. 
 Indeed there is an instinctive tendency to rhythm manifested in all 
 muscular actions, from the rocking of a cradle, or the see-saw of a 
 nurse's arms, to the most exquisite harmonies in the steps of a 
 Taglioni. Children when happy, even in their little feasts, may be 
 observed to beat time. Adults are disposed to sing, or hum, or dance, 
 when subject to pleasant emotion. Philosophers, arriving at a satis- 
 factory solution of some problem, may be seen to swing an arm or 
 a stick in a measured movement. Under solemn emotion, the gait 
 becomes strictly measured ; but under vexation we beat the Devil's 
 Tattoo. Speech issuing from grand emotion tends to rhythmical 
 cadences. Counting and measuring are those slight exercises of mind 
 to which it is sometimes compelled by circumstances. Persons con- 
 fined to bed are not unfrequently fatigued by the solicitations to this 
 exercise, made by the eyes, which catch patterns in the curtains and 
 wall-paper. To make the steps coincide with the pattern of a carpet, 
 or with the flags of a pavement, is parallel to the beating of time 
 with the hand, or walking to the time of music. In the vacuity and 
 exhaustion of mind left by violent emotion men fall into like automatic 
 actions of mind and muscle. They stand by the coffins of their dearest 
 friends, and, in their desolate abstractedness of mind, mechanically 
 count the nails in the coffin-lid, or measure the quarters of the 
 escutcheons. But I need not multiply instances. 
 
 Now it is not likely that, from the generality of this fact, as to the 
 whole muscular system, the muscles of the eye should present an 
 exception. On the contrary, when we observe the great mobility of 
 the organ, and the wonderful equipoise in the antagonism of its 
 muscles, we might expect that their action would require a certain 
 rhythm to make them agreeable; but if the spaces over which the 
 eyes are carried have definite proportions to each other, it follows that 
 the movements of the eyes will bear like proportions. Such pro- 
 portioned movements, then, are rhythmical, and may be capable of infinite 
 variety ; that is, they may be as extensive as the variety of harmonious 
 forms ; and, in all that regulated harmonious variety, they may afford 
 exquisite feelings of pleasure. In fact the eyes may be said to beat 
 time to a visual music, or to dance in concert with the flowing melody 
 of the curving outlines they follow, or to thread with tuneful steps the
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 25 
 
 mazes of beautiful proportions, unconscious all the time that they are, 
 
 " With wanton heed and giddy cunning, 
 Untwisting all the chains that tie 
 The hidden soul of harmony." 
 
 Dancing consists of regular movements in divisions of time determined 
 by sound, and the pleasure of the action is quite apart from the 
 delight in the music, though concurrent with it. Looking, then, at a 
 symmetrical form, according to the view which I now venture to pro- 
 pound, consists in moving the eye over spaces measurable by angles of 
 definite proportions ; and the movements thus executed are followed 
 by a feeling of pleasure which is akin to that of dancing, being, 
 generally, however, concurrent with other causes of pleasure, such as 
 the colour or expression of the object. The sense of harmony or 
 proportion arises in the mind without any distinct understanding of 
 the causation. The mind is content to accept the pleasure without 
 recognizing its source. 
 
 While it is interesting to trace the combination of harmonic 
 proportions as one of the sources of Beauty, we must still bear in 
 mind that it is only one. With the geometrical beauty of the 
 Parthenon would be combined the pleasant impression of the light 
 reflected from the marble, the alternation of shade, the carving of 
 the decorations, and the emotions excited by the sculptured figures, 
 independently of the proportions of these figures. In a Gothic build- 
 ing the influence would be still more composite. When we take into 
 consideration the continuities of lines, the contrasts of light and 
 shadow, oftentimes the glory of coloured windows, generally the 
 endless variety of decorative appendages, and all the associations 
 derived from the purposes of the building, it is obvious that many 
 different elements of beauty are operating upon us at one and the 
 same time. If this remark holds good as to the aesthetics of architec- 
 ture, it must be, a fortiori, applicable to the pleasure derived from the 
 contemplation of a beautiful human figure. This is so obvious that 
 we need not enter into any further explanation. 
 
 It will have been noticed that Sensational Beauty, as governed by 
 similarity, continuity, and variety, has been illustrated chiefly through 
 Form. 
 
 Incidental allusion has been made to gradations of light and shade, 
 and to harmony of colour. It would seem to be a somewhat incom-
 
 26 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 plete discussion of Beauty through sense were colour to receive no 
 farther consideration ; and yet the subject, if to be treated at all, 
 would require more knowledge of the details than I possess, and more 
 space than my limits will allow. Certainly, I have nothing to add 
 to what has been fully explained in many recent works on the subject. 
 It is enough for me to say that the more the subject is inquired into, 
 the more striking will be the illustrations of the principle, that plea- 
 sure is derived from that tempering of contrast with likeness which is 
 found to belong to the harmonies of form and sound. 
 
 Mr. Field was the first to give numerical expression to the relative 
 intensities of the three primary colours, and to point out an analogy 
 between the harmonious adjustment of these primaries to their com- 
 plementary colours, and the common chord of music. Mr. Hay, who, 
 in a work* published many years ago, assigned the merit of discovering 
 this analogy to Mr. Field, has carried it further, and has arranged a 
 diatonic scale of colours in a series of octaves ; but with what degree 
 of success I do not presume to decide.f The pleasure derived from 
 
 * Laws of Harmonious Colouring, 3rd edition. 1836. 
 
 + I feel so much indebted to Mr. Hay for the instruction which I have derived 
 from his writings, that, although it does not bear immediately on my subject, I 
 cannot omit the mention of one of his claims as a discoverer, which he has stated in 
 the following passage, extracted from his " Laws of Harmonious Colouring : " 
 
 " Although 1 could not, by analysis, prove that there were only three colours, 
 I succeeded in proving it to my own satisfaction, synthetically, in the following 
 manner : After having tried every colour in succession, and finding that none of 
 them could be separated into two, I next made a hole in the first screen in the 
 centre of the blue of the spectrum, and another in that of the red. I had thereby 
 a spot of each of these colours upon a second screen. I then, by means of another 
 prism, directed the blue spot to the same part of the second screen on which the red 
 appeared, where they united and produced a violet as pure and intense as that upon 
 the spectrum. I did the same with the blue and yellow, and produced the prismatic 
 green ; as also the red and yellow, and orange was the result. I tried, in the same 
 manner, to mix a simple with what I thought a compound colour, but they did not 
 unite ; for no sooner was the red spot thrown upon the green than it disappeared. 
 
 " I tried the experiment with two spectrums, the one behind, and, of course, a 
 little above the other, and passed a spot of each colour successively over the 
 spectrum which was farthest from the window, and the same result occurred. It 
 therefore appeared to me that these three colours had an affinity to one another that 
 did not exist in the others, and that they could not be the same in every respect, 
 except colour and refrangibility, as had hitherto been taught. 
 
 " These opinions, the result of my experiments, I published in 1828, as being a 
 necessary part of a treatise of this nature ; and I did so with great diffidence, well 
 knowing that I was soaring far above my own element, in making an attempt to 
 throw light upon such a subject. I had, however, the gratification to learn that 
 these facts were afterwards proved in a communication read to the Royal Society of 
 Edinburgh by Sir David Brewster, on the 21st of March, 1831, in which he showed 
 that white light consists of the three primary colours, red, yellow, and blue ; and 
 that the other colours shown by the prism are composed of these." Pp. 10, 11, 
 5th edition.
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 
 
 Form has, it appears to me, and as I have endeavoured to show in 
 this section, a different source from that to which colour can be 
 referred. 
 
 Having analysed the pleasure derived from similarity, we now 
 return to variety, as a source of Beauty. The delight in new impres- 
 sions, the sense of change, and of action ; this is what may be 
 considered the most popular kind of Beauty. For the appreciation of 
 symmetry, a certain amount of culture is needful ; but new colours 
 and unaccustomed forms may at once attract attention and impart 
 pleasure to the most simple and uneducated minds. 
 
 The feelings induced are closely related to the desire for knowledge, 
 whether it be that which consists of additions to previous experience 
 or that which is derived from the arrangement of what we know in new 
 combinations. And under the operation of agencies which bring such 
 novelties and varieties the mind has a consciousness of pleasant activity 
 analagous to the enjoyment of muscular exercise. 
 
 It is this ministration which accounts for most of the pleasure pro- 
 duced by natural scenery, whether in the variety of surface presented 
 by undulations of hill and dale, or in the ever-changing effects from 
 new distributions of rays and colours, and shadows, or in the irre- 
 gularly-winding courses of brooks and rivers, or in the endless 
 diversities of forms in flowers, and herbs, and trees, and in the 
 animated tribes which people the scenes of beauty. And yet in all 
 these objects it is to be noted, that, though variety is a prevailing 
 element, yet there is a large intermixture of similarity. A tree 
 presents constant change of direction in the branches, the boughs, and 
 twigs, yet we cannot but observe the similarity of the leaves to each 
 other, and the uniformity of their colour ; and irregular as may be the 
 lines of the branches and twigs, yet, on examination, we may find 
 more regularity in the intervals of division, and in the angles of 
 divarication, than might at first have been expected. 
 
 This, too, is ever to be borne in mind, that, however great may be 
 the charm of variety, expression, and change of movement, there is 
 still a deep desire in the eye and in the mind for repose. The rustling 
 of the foliage by wind may give a temporary animation to the grove; 
 it may be pleasant to see the surface of the lake crisped by a passing 
 breeze ; and there is undoubted fascination in features which show the 
 play of various emotion : but foliage more frequently in agitation than
 
 28 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 at rest a lake oftener ruffled than calm a face always changing its 
 expression would induce a feeling in the spectator far less agreeable 
 than even the monotony and lifelessness of unbroken repose. 
 
 How, then, are we to account for the undeniable fact, that if a face, 
 though defective in contour and symmetry, is expressive of certain 
 mental states or emotions, it is universally preferred to one which is 
 faultlessly regular, but wanting in expressiveness? The answer is, 
 that in the human being we require more than fine configuration of 
 feature ; we desire certain qualities of heart and mind, betokened in 
 what we term a pleasing, as distinguished from a beautiful face. In 
 saying that this is the more beautiful, that the more pleasing face, we 
 imply that we prefer the beauty of emotion or mind to that of sense ; 
 yet still we unconsciously refer to a standard of beauty involving the 
 idea of symmetry or harmonious colour. The face which is pleasing in 
 expression is, we say, beautiful in expression. We have pleasure in 
 both a greater pleasure in the expressive one ; but that which we 
 characterize as beautiful, par excellence, is that which is of a certain 
 mould and colour. The pleasure, however, which is derived from 
 mere physical beauty of face can never compete with that which is an 
 indication of beauty of character. 
 
 In works of art the repetition of mere typical forms of beauty is 
 very apt to beget a tame and insipid style. Such were the academic 
 conventionalities against which there has been so violent a reaction in 
 the present day. As if weary of forms of beauty, because by iteration 
 without variety they had become stale and effete, a class of artists, 
 endowed both with genius and industry, started up a few years ago 
 with the seeming intention of compelling us to admire faces which 
 express life, passion, and sentiment though devoid of all beauty of 
 configuration. The movement, notwithstanding the fiery zeal and 
 eloquence of its prophet, and the smiles and applause of fashion, will 
 not be ultimately successful. A revolution which mistakes the reverse 
 of wrong for right is sure to fail. The lovers of beauty, preferring 
 what is dull to what is offensive, will rather doze over the inanities 
 and insipidities of a drowsy dilettantism, than choose to be irritated 
 into wakeful attention by ugly contours, disproportioned figures, and 
 ill-assorted colours, drawn and arranged after the hard and ignorant 
 manner of the early Christian painters, and imbued with the childish 
 symbolism of the dismal Middle Ages. 
 
 But if a living face charged with pleasing expression, though pos-
 
 SENSATIONAL BEAUTY. 29 
 
 sessing no claims to regular beauty, delights us more than its converse, 
 it might be expected that, if one or the other must be chosen, we 
 should request the artist, except when he is engaged on a portrait, to 
 present us with the expressive rather than with the merely beautiful 
 face. . But the cases are different ; for while the chief attraction of the 
 living face is the play of varying thought and emotion, in a work of 
 art only one expression can be rendered ; and if it represents nothing 
 but that one expression we become weary of it. There is a statue in 
 one of the courts of Edinburgh, of Duncan Forbes, by Roubiliac, 
 which, seen for the first time, is almost sure to elicit some such an 
 exclamation as " What wonderfully life-like energy and animation!" 
 Few persons of taste, however, would wish to be often in the presence 
 of that restless figure ; they would even rather desire to have per- 
 petuated before them the calm stolidity of the most impassive judge 
 that was ever turned into congenial stone. 
 
 The severance of beauty of form from beauty of expression is an 
 unnatural divorce. It is as much opposed to a true sesthetical philo- 
 sophy as an attempt to produce poetry without the melody of verse. 
 
 Even where variety of lines and forms is most natural, as in the 
 grouping of human or angelic figures in a picture, it will be found 
 that the arrangement is most agreeable to the eye, when, without 
 formality, there is a certain degree of symmetry, as when one side of 
 the picture somewhat corresponds to the other, without conspicuously 
 balancing it. A parallelism which does not strike the eye, and yet 
 may be traced in the direction of the limbs the figure of a pyramid, 
 or an ellipse, or a rectangle, which may be traceable to the eye which 
 looks for it, though it does not in the least approach to actual defi- 
 nition, such arrangements, by a virtual conformity to symmetry, 
 without any marked appearance of it, give unquestionable pleasure to 
 our sight. In natural objects, as I have already hinted, where there 
 is the greatest apparent diversity, it is easy to trace the law of uni- 
 formity. In foliage there is not only the general likeness of the leaves 
 and branches, but the direction or the relative position of the leaves is 
 in a great measure uniform, and a departure from it produces an 
 impression of confusion or discomposure which may even cause us to 
 attribute unhealthiness to the plant or tree in which we observe this 
 derangement. 
 
 Grace that is, beauty in motion and attitude is a striking illus- 
 tration of the union of the two principles of similarity and variety.
 
 30 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 For the secret of graceful action is that the symmetry is preserved 
 through all the varieties of position. 
 
 In our analysis of certain beautiful combinations of form, as pre- 
 sented by the human face and figure, and in works of architecture, we 
 found lines, angles, and curves, associated in a manner delightful to 
 the sense of symmetry. Independently of the pleasure derivable from 
 the subtle harmony which pervades such proportions, there is a more 
 superficial element of pleasure belonging to the mere contrast or variety 
 afforded by such diversity of lines. " How exquisite and beautiful," 
 says Mr. Field, " is the play of the primary figures in the human 
 countenance ! the arched or curved brows, the circular and globular eyes, 
 the angular and pyramidal nose, the linear mouth, and all the graces, 
 forms and flexures of line and contour by which they insensibly vary 
 and combine in the formation of the most beautiful and expressive of 
 all Heaven's works ! "* 
 
 To some minds novelty or variety is the strongest want. Athens 
 and Rome, the loveliest and grandest scenes in Italy and Switzerland, 
 may have been only once visited by individuals, who, instead of 
 returning to the same places, will choose to wander through unvisited 
 countries, in search of new impresssions and new excitement. In a 
 mind absolutely llase there is a prurient desire for mere novelty. 
 Even deformity and grotesqueness are craved for by one sense, just as 
 strange compounds which are sour, bitter, and nauseous to the unso- 
 phisticated, can alone stimulate another sense. This, however, is chiefly 
 seen in those who have not cultivated their mental faculties, and whose 
 taste for similarity has not been developed in those comparisons of the 
 judgment, in which the common generalizations of science consist nor 
 in the intelligent contemplation of works of art. 
 
 In closing this division of the subject, let us sum up by remarking 
 that symmetry is repose, variety is action. Variety is pursuit, and 
 symmetry is fulfilment. In the one there is expectation, in the 
 other, satisfaction. In variety the mind unfolds itself; in symmetry 
 it returns upon itself. A parallel for variety may be found in youth 
 and growth ; for symmetry, in perfection and maturity. The radius 
 is the type of unity, the circumference, of variety. Beauty moves 
 between the centripetal and centrifugal forces, but her favourite orbit 
 is an ellipse. 
 
 * Analogical Philosophy, vol. ii., p. 135.
 
 INTELLECTUAL BEAUTY. 31 
 
 m. 
 
 THE most obvious source under the head of Intellectual Beauty is 
 Memory, or the reproduction of objects and images in themselves 
 beautiful or productive of associations "which invest them with beauty, 
 in accordance with what we shall speak of presently as Emotional 
 Beauty. 
 
 There are many occasions in which the results of the operations of 
 the judgment give us a feeling of satisfaction which we call beautiful 
 A piece of com man workmanship may be submitted to us ; and, on 
 examination, we find the parts so well fitted, and the surface so well 
 polished, that our satifaction leads us to say that it is a beautiful 
 piece of work. Or we inspect some new invention ; and, on finding 
 that the means produce the intended result with certainty and precision, 
 we pronounce it a beautiful invention, thereby expressing the admira- 
 tion which it excites in our minds. And this admiration may be 
 excited whether the effect be produced by great simplicity of means, 
 or by a complication of arrangements so well ordered that they all 
 work harmoniously to the desired end. When speaking of similarity 
 and novelty, I hinted that the bringing of a number of familiar 
 phenomena under the operation of one law, or the perception of an 
 analogy or likeness of relations between things generally considered 
 different, afforded one kind of pleasure, and the discovery of new 
 phenomena gave another kind. Both of these kinds of pleasure 
 answer to the word Beautiful. Again, we apply this term to a lucid 
 statement, or to a well-connected train of reasoning. The mind 
 delights in detecting unexpected similarities from the perception of a 
 simple proportion in the angles of a triangle up to the discovery or 
 demonstration of the most spacious generalizations of Philosophy. 
 In these, and all the other instances of Beauty through intellect, it 
 it will be observed that degree is an important element. When the 
 excellence of the work, or of the induction, or of the reasoning, is 
 such as to create not only satisfaction but admiration, it is designated 
 as Beautiful. 
 
 In the operations of Fancy and Imagination we might trace like 
 examples ; but in these there is the danger of confounding the pleasure 
 derived from the images themselves, and the associated emotions, with 
 that which arises from their collocation. And indeed if it be merely
 
 32 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 collocation, Wit is the word which is often employed, rather than 
 beauty ; surprise and unexpectedness being the chief elements. When 
 the images are alike only in one or two points, and in others incon- 
 gruous, they belong to Humour. But when the things associated are 
 in themselves beautiful, then we only use the word beauty as pertaining 
 both to the things themselves and to the fact that they are unexpectedly 
 brought together. 
 
 To this head must be referred the beauty which belongs to Litera- 
 ture. The Belles Lettres are works which in their very subject-matter 
 tend to excite that mental enjoyment, the cause of which, whencesoever 
 derived, is designated Beauty. But the mere composition of a literary 
 work, independently of its subject-matter, may be such as to invest it 
 with this character. Let it be a mere scientific exposition, or a close 
 argument, or a narrative of uninteresting events, the phenomena may 
 be arranged with such method, the several steps of the reasoning be 
 so distinctly marked and linked in such happy sequence, and the events 
 recounted in such lucid order, as to give the reader a feeling of admi- 
 ration, which instinctively brings to his lip the word Beautiful. But 
 when a story, replete with stirring or touching incidents, representing 
 scenes of beauty in nature, and introducing characters of moral beauty, 
 is told in words which, by their harmony of sound, their nicety of 
 adaptation, and their power of suggesting correlative emotions and 
 sentiments, enhance the pleasure which even the scenes, the actions, 
 and the persons would call forth without such reflected charms of 
 style, when, in a word, we have such a recital as that with which 
 Mr. Macaulay indulges his readers, no one hesitates to affix to it the 
 epithet Beautiful. But in this case there are more elements than 
 the simple intellectual beauty ; they are such as are found in the im- 
 passioned argument of an orator who knows how to dispose his hearers 
 to the reception of his views by exciting those feelings of pleasure and 
 admiration which follow displays of rhetoric. Poetry, which is 
 " Beauty's consummate flower" in literature, is of still more complex 
 constitution, deriving its elements from every one of the departments 
 under which we are attempting to consider this subject, calling up 
 images of beautiful sights and sounds, thoughts tastefully arranged and 
 decorated, and ideal conceptions of goodness and loveliness far tran- 
 scending the actual, awakening every species of emotion and passion, 
 and thus drawing upon the stores of Intellectual, Moral, and 
 Emotional Beauty by words which in their metrical arrangement have 
 a Sensational Beauty of their own.
 
 MOKAL BEAUTY. 33 
 
 The Beauty of Science might, like that of literature, be found to 
 involve more elements than the simple intellectual, though they are not 
 so numerous as in the former. Were a philosopher, without any elo- 
 quence, merely to set forth the grand phenomena and forces displayed 
 in the mechanism of the heavens, or in the construction of the earth, 
 he would excite sentiments of admiration derived from a contemplation 
 of the power of the Deity and of the arrangements of His Providence, 
 as well as of the position of man in relation to these wonderful works ; 
 but when such themes are treated by a Herschel, a Lyell, or a 
 Forbes, the beauty of literature is added to that of science. 
 
 It is interesting, in reference to Intellectual Beauty, to trace the 
 same influence of the opposite principles of similarity and variety 
 upon which we have already commented. New facts and even 
 strange, anomalous, and insulated phenomena are welcomed by the 
 mind which delights in variety. Order, method, analogy, unity of 
 plan, laws, are required for the satisfaction of minds in which the 
 love of symmetry prevails. The highest works of Art or of Literature 
 are those which fully satisfy the taste for symmetry; and which 
 yet, either, in the complexity of forms, colours, and sounds, afford 
 occasions to the mind for discovering new beauties in the physical 
 arrangements, or suggest new associations, or present objects, senti- 
 ments, and emotions in new combinations ; and all this with continual 
 pleasurable surprises in the adaptation of the material of the Art to the 
 purpose accomplished. Thus the opposite principles of light and 
 shade are gently graduated, diverse colours are blended, marble is 
 made plastic, and words are compelled into groups, which, in their 
 literal meaning, or in their symbols and metaphors, bring an array of 
 fresh images, reflections, sentiments, and emotions, and at the same 
 time, by their individual euphony, their rhythm and their metre, the 
 melody of their clauses, and the "linked sweetness" of their harmo- 
 nious periods, delight the sense of hearing, and minister to the love of 
 order in time and space. , 
 
 IV. 
 
 WE have more than once had occasion to use the term Moral Beauty, 
 but we could not pause to define it. It represents the impression made 
 upon our minds by the contemp'ation of certain human actions or cha- 
 racters. The performance of duty, the practice of goodness, charity, and
 
 34 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 benevolence, the exhibition of certain active qualities of soul, such as 
 resolution, courage, and bravery, or of such passive virtues as patience, 
 forbearance, and resignation, all these may be observed and may 
 beget in the observer's mind no other feeling than that of approval. 
 But when these performances, practices, and endurances, are of a kind 
 or degree that calls forth the warmer feeling of admiration, expressed 
 in praise and applause, they are entitled to the epithet beautiful. We 
 instinctively use his word when we see that integrity and purity have 
 been preserved in spite of temptation, that good has been done to 
 others through self-denial, or by encountering toil, and pain, and 
 peril ; and that injury from man, and chastisement from heaven, have 
 been received without revenge, or even bitterness without rebellion, 
 or even murmuring. But putting aside the splendour of such triumphs 
 of the good over the evil principle, or the manifestation of such high 
 and brilliant virtues, the lives and conduct of many persons present 
 actions so graceful, a considerateness so refined, such tenderness of 
 sympathy, and so delicate a shrinking from the possibility of doing 
 violence to the feelings of others, that to these also we do not hesitate 
 to apply the character of Moral Beauty, because we cannot behold 
 them without pleasure and admiration. 
 
 I dare not venture on more sacred ground ; but he who has had the 
 happiness of watching the lives of those who, in passing through the 
 world, escape contamination ; who devote their faculties, endowments, 
 and exertions to the promotion of the happiness of others, by making 
 them wiser and better ; and who show in all their actions, and feelings, 
 and endurances, that the moral sentiments are developed to the greatest 
 height commensurate with humanity because they are interpenetrated 
 with, and become assimilated to, the divine light and the divine 
 pattern ; he who has watched the course of such lives and characters 
 will understand what is signified by "the beauty of holiness." 
 
 V. 
 
 FEELIXGS of an interesting and pleasurable nature, called up by out- 
 ward objects, or by reproduced images in the mind, have the power 
 of shedding beauty on their sources. It has been held by some who 
 have thought closely and written eloquently on this subject particu- 
 larly Mr. Alison and Lord Jefiery that there is nothing beautiful but 
 what owes this quality to its power of exciting or reproducing emotions
 
 EMOTIONAL BEAUTY. 35 
 
 of an agreeable or interesting character, such emotions being naturally 
 or by accident connected with the object termed beautiful. This view 
 excludes all beauty as dependent on form, colour, and sound, and 
 indeed refuses to admit that there is any such thing as essential beauty. 
 I trust that what has been said in the former part of this essay will 
 have been sufficient to prove that there is good reason for considering 
 beauty as having a cause independent of its associated feelings. " If 
 there were nothing," says Dugald Stewart, " origally and intrinsically 
 pleasing or beautiful, the associating principle would have no materials 
 on which it could operate."* 
 
 Nevertheless, this secondary beauty is very largely mixed up with 
 the primary ; and in many objects it is extremely difficult to separate 
 them. It may be difficult when contemplating a beautiful female face 
 to say how much is due to physical beauty, and how much to the play 
 of expression and of all the interesting emotions and sentiments related 
 with such expression ; but we cannot doubt that there is beauty in the 
 finely-proportioned and exquisitely-chiselled contour, in the hue of the 
 delicately-tinted cheeks, the ruby colour of the lips, the brilliancy of 
 the eyes, and the flow of the raven or golden tresses. It is in vain 
 that an eloquent writer tells us that we see in those qualities only the 
 signs of youth, and health, and gaiety and that such objects would 
 have no attractions for the Negro, the Mongol, the Esquimaux, or the 
 Chippewa. To this we answer, that there are qualities in the ladies of 
 those races which excite in the minds of their adorers the same kind 
 of admiration as that which is produced by such faces as we have 
 faintly sketched. Let the Negro, the Mongol, the Esquimaux, and 
 the Chippewa, admire, to their heart's content, their "sable, or yellow, 
 or copper-coloured charmers, we are Caucasians, and will not be told 
 that there is no beauty in "vermeil-tinctured lips," and in "tresses 
 like the morn," and in 
 
 " cheeks as fail- 
 As rose-o'ershadow'd lilies are." 
 
 The more familiar objects may be that is, the longer they have been 
 the objects of our experience the more difficult is it to separate the 
 accidental or secondary from the primary or essential. View a meadow 
 in Spring, on a sunny day, verdant with grass and full of golden 
 buttercups or cowslips there is unquestionable beauty in the impres- 
 sion on sense ; but the scene is full of other causes of interest 
 
 * Philos. Essays, page 289, -iio. ed.
 
 36 THE PKINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 thoughts of spring, and all that spring implies, whether as a reality 
 or a type the memories of childhood or youth all that poets have 
 sung or painters have coloured; all these associated ideas and emotions 
 crowd into the mind so tumultuously as almost to deprive it of its 
 capability of recognizing the original source of delight in the scene ; 
 the delight which we felt as children when first we saw the meadow, 
 and which would be of the same kind were we in mature age to behold 
 it for the first time the simple enjoyment of the glory of the green, 
 and gold. 
 
 Confusion, in regard to this subject, has also been caused by the 
 consideration either of those cases in which there is no primary beauty, 
 or beauty derived through the senses, or of others in which an object 
 beautiful in itself loses its charm or becomes positively impleasing by 
 reason of the coherent emotions. A colour may in itself have great 
 attractions ; but it may be so unfit for the surface to which it is applied 
 that the combined influence of the colour, and the thing coloured, may 
 be absolutely disagreeable. A strain of music, otherwise delightful, 
 may, by recalling some disagreeable or disgusting circumstances with 
 which it was once associated, become a source of actual pain or irrita- 
 tion to the hearer : but the reverse effect is, perhaps, more frequent. 
 It is less common for an outward impression to be robbed of its beauty, 
 than for one not in itself capable of exciting simple beauty to become 
 invested with the beauty derived from the associated interest. Such is 
 the transforming power of affection that the subject of it will say, 
 " You think him plain, but to me he is beautiful ! " In such cases 
 the neutral or unpleasing impression is overlooked, or regarded only 
 as a sign of the suggested interest the symbol being absorbed in the 
 symbolized. 
 
 The power of mere pleasure of emotion to invest the otitward cause 
 of it with the quality of beauty is strikingly exemplified in the text, 
 " How beautiful on the mountains are the feet of them that bring glad 
 tidings !" 
 
 "When speaking of variety we glanced at the Beauty of Expression. 
 This kind of beauty belongs, for the most part, to the three divisions 
 which have now passed under survey the Intellectual, the Moral, and 
 the Emotional. When an object in nature or art raises a feeling of 
 beauty which either cannot be referred to form, or colour, or sound, or 
 any other sensational quality, or in which such sensational beauty is 
 subordinate to that which is not sensational, we say that it has the
 
 EMOTIONAL BEAUTY. 37 
 
 beauty of expression. Such beauty as men feel when touched by " the 
 tender grace of a day that is dead" brought suddenly back to the 
 mind by an outward object, or when visited by forms which live only 
 in the imagination, or which come at the bidding of poets, without 
 being present to the bodily sense, or when subdued or fascinated by 
 those charms of mind and soul which hover over the brows, beam in 
 the eyes, glance from the cheek, and play about the lips, without the 
 consciousness of the presence of face or feature ; such is the beauty 
 which belongs to expression. It is this which makes the seen subor- 
 dinate to the unseen, by which the soul triumphs over sense, and the 
 ideal supersedes the real. And yet it is not the perfection of beauty ; 
 for this is only complete when all its several elements are present in 
 due proportion and co-ordination, and working harmoniously together, 
 beautiful shapes and sounds with beautiful thoughts and feelings. 
 
 Why the production of emotions which seem in themselves to have 
 no pleasurable element should be eagerly desired or accepted as in 
 tragedies, tales of sorrow, and terror is a curious question, which we 
 have no time to consider. We must admit it to be a fact that we take 
 pleasure in the excitement of strong emotions, of whatever nature. 
 It is constantly recognized in common experience and common language. 
 We talk of the " love of mere excitement." The stirring of our 
 mental and spiritual nature has a kind of enjoyment like that of the 
 exercise of our muscles. The word interesting is often used in a sense 
 very different from pleasing. An object or emotion which we like to 
 keep before our minds is interesting. A face may be far from beautiful, 
 and yet it may be very interesting ; it may call up emotions connected 
 with sorrow, and suffering, and bereavement, and yet we have an 
 interest in contemplating it ; nevertheless the interest is not long sus- 
 tained unless there are hints of moral qualities which excite admiration, 
 such as meekness, patience, and resignation. 
 
 In the sublime there may be no other emotions called forth than 
 wonder and awe, yet the mind will dwell upon the object which excites 
 them, and anxiously desire a repetition of like emotions. In the con- 
 templation of sublime scenery the soul seems to be endowed for a time 
 with a supernatural expansion and elevation of its nature. It exists 
 in a sphere eminently contrasted with its every-day life, far away from 
 all mean and vulgarizing associations and experiences ; approaching 
 nearer to the Infinite, of which Imagination dreams and which Reli- 
 gion partly unveils. It is, for the time, a newer, wider, and loftier 
 phase of being.
 
 38 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 "We have seen that the Beautiful results from certain emotions of 
 which visual pleasure is the simplest type. But the feeling of the 
 sublime is not resolvable into mere pleasure of sense. It may be 
 associated with it, but there is something more. The fundamental 
 element is the emotion of wonder tinged with awe. As pleasure and 
 admiration belong to beauty, so wonder, awe, and reverence, belong 
 to the Sublime. 
 
 Colour, proportion, symmetry, and variety, we have seen, are con- 
 stituents of beauty. They have no essential connection with sublimity. 
 Size, quantity, space, are the factors of the Sublime. The eye takes 
 in a great extent of light, travels over vast breadths of shade, rises to 
 altitudes or plunges into depths. The broken line that would jar the 
 sense of beauty may minister to the Sublime as in a distant mountain- 
 range, where the angular peaks carry the eye upwards and enhance 
 the feeling of elevation. The curved line may indeed detract from the 
 Sublime, seeing that it brings the eye downwards, and is, therefore, 
 not suggestive of elevation. Facility, or absence of sense of effort, in 
 one sense belongs to beauty ; but the very feeling of effort, and labour, 
 and difficulty, harmonizes with the Sublime. 
 
 From all that has been said it would appear that when we experi- 
 ence pleasure from objects of sight or hearing whether present to our 
 senses or recalled by art, poetry, or eloquence, or from certain results 
 of mental operations, or from the contemplation of moral actions, 
 or from suggested emotions we apply to that which is the outward 
 cause of that pleasure the epithet Beautiful; and according to the 
 quickness and fineness of our perceptions ; or, secondly, the extent of 
 our power of judgment, and reasoning, and imagination ; or, thirdly, 
 our sympathy with moral goodness ; or, lastly, the liveliness and 
 readiness of association in our emotions; will be the degree of our 
 susceptibility of the Beautiful. 
 
 The sensorium is so organized as to respond to the harmonies of 
 sight and sound of the outer world in all men of normal constitution, 
 But the faculty has different degrees of development in different 
 individuals, and is susceptible of almost unlimited cultivation. That, 
 however, which is most calculated to move our wonder and admiration 
 is the mental constitution of men of creative genius, whereby they 
 unconsciously produce such harmonies of sight and sound, and embody 
 them in outward objects.
 
 IDEAL BEAUTY. 39 
 
 Very wonderful is it that the proportionate vibrations of the air, 
 and the harmonic ratios of sculptured marble, should give so keen a 
 sense of delight to the ear and the eye ; but how much more -wonderful 
 that unconsciously in the brain of the man of genius, in the mysterious 
 molecular actions of the ultimate vesicles of the nervous tissue, there 
 should be evolved, without any outward agencies, those ratios of space 
 and time which, working on the nerves and muscles of voice and hand, 
 make themselves heard and seen in far-off lands, and far-off times, 
 filling the world to its remotest bounds with forms of beauty and tones 
 of melody that never die ; miraculously preserved in tombs of Thebes ; 
 buried, but disinterred in palaces of Nineveh ; lingering among the 
 oleanders of Lycia; shining, though not wjth "original brightness," 
 on the Acropolis of Athens ; and thrilling through the vaults of cathe- 
 drals ; requiems of Mozart, demi-gods of Phidias, sibyls of Michael 
 Angelo, Madonnas of Raphael, heavenly cadences of Milton ; all 
 answerings of the internal great ideas, emanations from those inacces- 
 sible cells where the vital force, with an inspiration and energy past 
 man's understanding, plies her mysterious work! Thence issuing, 
 these wonders of form and sound are caught by the eyes and ears of 
 other men, pressed to their hearts, shrined with their gods, mingled 
 with the blessed sanctities of their homes, and handed down to distant 
 ages, so that the thought and feeling of one mind may become the 
 beauty and the joy of all men for ever. 
 
 VI. 
 
 THOUGH I am by no means so ambitious as to think of treating this 
 subject exhaustively, a short space must be devoted to Ideal Beauty. 
 On this subject there are many theories. According to some writers, 
 Ideal Beauty is attained to by separating from several individual forms 
 those parts or qualities which are most beautiful, rejecting the imper- 
 fections, and compiling, as it were, an aggregate of excellencies. In 
 the opinion of others, Ideal Beauty is nothing but that which is derived 
 from the most perfect specimens of the actual. The perfection of 
 Greek sculpture, according to this view, is to be attributed to the 
 excellence of the models and to the careful imitation of them. A 
 third view is that we realize Ideal Beauty by heightening those qualities 
 in which consists the specific character of the form which is to be 
 represented. Thus, as in the human form, there are many points in
 
 40 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 which the types of the inferior animals are departed from ; and as it 
 presents features expressive of the higher and nobler qualities, these 
 departures and expressions are in the ideal form to be more strongly 
 marked than in any that may have been actually submitted to our 
 observation. In all these views there is something of truth ; but they 
 do not afford the required explanations. 
 
 And yet the matter seems simple enough. Beauty depends upon 
 the mind. There must be mind to perceive it. To a person -wanting 
 the power of perception it is of no use to be told of exquisite colours, 
 or of fine lines, or of harmonious combinations of form, or of the 
 expression of related emotions, &c. If he does not perceive these 
 things, to him the object is not beautiful, and to him there is not even 
 Actual Beauty, which is beauty perceived. Now Ideal Beauty in its 
 birth is not that which the mind perceives, but that which it imagines. 
 No one will question that the mind makes combinations very different 
 from anything that has ever been presented to the senses. This 
 imaginative faculty is very unequally developed in different individuals. 
 To its operations in some gifted minds we owe the greatest works of 
 Art and Poetry. The poet, the dramatist, and the novelist, conceive 
 characters infinitely more wise, and brave, and fair, and good, than 
 any beings whom we have met with in actual life. If we have low 
 views of composition we complain of such characters as too heroic, too 
 angelic, too unearthly, forgetting or unaware that art does not consist 
 in the mere imitation of the real and actual, but that it aims at educing 
 and realizing the divine possibilities of our nature. If a person has 
 no imagination, to him there is no ideal beauty ; just as we have seen 
 that to the person wanting the correlative sensibility there is no actual 
 beauty. As is the mind, as is the imagination, as are the ideas, such 
 will be ideal beauty. Eaphael writes a letter to his friend telling him 
 that he is designing a Madonna from a model ? No but from the 
 idea that is floating before his mind. No one who really admires the 
 Madonna di San Sisto will dream that Eaphael had ever seen such a 
 face as her's. His mind created it as an idea, and his had realized it 
 on the canvas. 
 
 I need scarcely add that in such operations the mind does not act 
 apart from law. Influenced either by intuition or by knowledge it 
 still, in its freest excursions, keeps within harmonic forms and ratios, 
 whether employed in shaping a goddess, or in designing a Madonna, 
 or in planning a temple or a cathedral.
 
 IDEAL BEAUTY. 41 
 
 In the successful exercise of Fine Art the qualities of the inner 
 and outer world are interpenetrated. He who draws or moulds only 
 from his own mental conceptions must soon become barren and unfruit- 
 ful ; but he who only copies natural objects as they are presented to 
 his mere bodily sense will never be a great artist. Art is not subor- 
 dinate to nature. It is inclusive of nature. It is nature plus the skill, 
 the power, the sentiment, and the imagination of man's mind. It is 
 nature informed with thought and infused with feeling. It is nature 
 exalted, refined, and glorified. In a word, it is nature impregnated 
 with humanity. Nor let us entertain for one moment the notion that 
 to speak of nature as humanized is to speak of it as lowered ; as if it 
 became less divine; as if while nature sprang direct from God, man 
 did not ; as if whilst all that nature has done and does has been done 
 by the direct impulse of God, man's operations, on the other hand, 
 were entirely apart from those of God, independent, and all but an- 
 tagonistic. Who made man ? Who gave him his cunning hand, and 
 his fine discerning eye, and his "large discourse of reason," and his 
 sense of beauty, and his conceptions of the Ideal Fair and Good, and 
 his faculty of embodying them in the sight of his fellow men ? Surely 
 we ought not to disparage the work of this very work of God, this 
 art-nature, this nature fashioned, and moulded, and sculptured, and 
 coloured, and arranged, and piled up, and set forth, by the highest 
 nature of all, the human hand and the human brain, those greatest 
 of God's creations. 
 
 Art, I have said, is inclusive of Nature. It is Nature and some- 
 thing more. Nature is substance existing in certain forms and modes 
 and conditions of being, full of forces which are latent or actively at 
 work, and man is in the midst of them. If he is content with nature 
 as he finds it, he is a dwarfed, undeveloped being. But it is not so ; 
 for it is obvious that there ever arises in his mind a dissatisfaction with 
 the world about him. He has capacities of enjoyment which this rude, 
 uninformed nature will not satisfy ; his thoughts grow, and nature is 
 compelled to grow in co-ordination with his thoughts. His food must 
 be elaborate and refined into something more sustaining and delicate 
 and enlivening than what he can gather from wild fruits and rivulets. 
 The defences from frost, and wind, and rain, which he has snatched 
 from the lower animals, will not content him ; it must be woven and 
 coloured into conformity with his sense of beauty. Mansions and 
 palaces will supersede the hollow tree and rocky cavern. Many a
 
 42 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 generation, however, must rise and fall before that stage of develop- 
 ment arrives in which the complicated intellectual wants and desires of 
 civilized life are manifested. But in those distant ages it will come to 
 pass that although he will have learnt to appreciate, in a way that his 
 progenitors never dreamed of, the glory and beauty of the visible 
 world, yet these are not enough for him. He must contemplate these 
 objects under other forms ; forms of his own invention, forms that have 
 a fascination of their own ; beauties culled from nature, but arranged 
 into groups fairer and grander than nature can supply. The most 
 beautiful of the daughters, and the stateliest of the sons of men will 
 scarcely satisfy him ; but from his fashioning hand and shaping imagi- 
 nation the marble will grow into diviner forms, and the canvas reflect 
 more heavenly colours. And when he raises buildings for the worship 
 of his Gods, they will be such as have no types, and scarcely a hint in 
 nature, beyond that of the trunk of a tree for a pillar and of a forest- 
 shade for the arching of an aisle. His temples, and towers, and 
 cathedrals, are not borrowed from nature outward nature but are 
 given to that nature by the higher nature which is in the mind of man. 
 Let us refrain, then, from a hypocritical laudation of Nature and 
 disparagement of Art. When the flowers of our conservatories are to 
 be plucked in the woods and hedgerows, when a match for the English 
 hunter or racehorse is caught in the prairie, when silk-worms make 
 Cashmere shawls, when the winds chant masses of Mozart, and the 
 birds pipe a pastoral of Beethoven, when we meet a Venus of Melos 
 in the fields, or accost a Delphic Sibyl in the village, then let us begin 
 to talk of Art as the mere reflex of outward nature. 
 
 Akin to the question of Ideal Beauty is that of the Standard of 
 beauty. It is like that which concerns the standard of Truth and the 
 standard of Morality. To a certain extent it must vary with the 
 structure, the cultivation, the enlightenment, and the refinement of the 
 mind. But as men are within, certain limits so similarly organized or 
 endowed as to be agreed on certain views which make a body of 
 universal truth, on certain principles of action which conform to the 
 idea of virtue, so there are certain laws of composition and design 
 admitted by the best-informed minds, which cannot be violated without 
 departing from the standard of beauty, which is in fact the catholic 
 aesthetic faith established by those who, on account of their endowments 
 and knowledge, have an authority in such matters. The variations of
 
 USES OF BEAUTY. 43 
 
 the standard of intellectual truth are, as might be expected, greater 
 than those of virtue ; and the standard of beauty, which is, as it were, 
 supplemental to our life, varies still more than that of truth. Races 
 and ages affect all three ; but given the same race, and an equal 
 amount of culture and freedom from, traditions, the amount of diver- 
 gence in the standards will be less observable. 
 
 VII. 
 
 FOB all this world of Beauty in Art and Nature there might seem to 
 be a sufficient reason in the happiness resulting from the delighted 
 exercise of man's faculties in perceiving the one and in producing and 
 admiring the other. But there is more than this ; for the Fine Arts 
 may be useful, in the same sense as the more expressly Useful Arts, 
 by aiding the accomplishment of some particular purpose. 
 
 Thus in portraits, busts, and statues, they may preserve the 
 features and forms of men who had won the admiration or love of 
 their friends and contemporaries, and may at the same time represent 
 the feelings of the latter ; or in frescoes, and bassi relievi, they may 
 commemorate great events and actions which have determined the 
 fates of heroes or of nations. In the performance of such functions 
 Art is a sort of durable embodied visual language, telling in repre- 
 sentative forms what otherwise would have needed oral or literal 
 communication. And in this ministration it may or may not at the 
 same time give that pleasure which is purely artistic or sesthetical, 
 just as facts may be told in words that are either eloquent or simply 
 exponent. But it rarely happens that works of art are required for 
 the bare purpose of representation or commemoration. They have 
 generally been expected to add dignity to the subject. The portrait 
 and the historic painting, the statute and the basso relievo, must 
 represent their subjects so that ideas of beauty and sublimity shall at 
 the same time enter the mind, as when it is under the corresponding 
 influence of eloquence and poetry. And this is decoration in its 
 largest sense. Only those men and those achievements are com- 
 memorated which we hold in veneration or affection. Art in 
 representing them must excite associations worthy of them impres- 
 sions of beauty and grandeur. 
 
 The conjunction of the Beautiful with whatever is- of worth,
 
 44 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 honour, dignity, or even of value, in our daily life, is evidenced in the 
 works, manners, and customs of mankind. The splendours of dress, 
 the shaping of instruments and utensils, the decorations of houses, of 
 public buildings, of temples and churches, all give testimony to our 
 instinctive association of the Beautiful with whatever we approve, 
 value, admire, or venerate. The mere finishing of a common work 
 of handicraft with such neatness and polish as are agreeable to the 
 eye, and therefore impart a kind of beauty to the object, does homage 
 to this principle. In obedience to it mankind array themselves in 
 their best apparel at their feasts and solemnities ; and they require 
 that buildings for the transaction of any important affairs shall be 
 something more than mere shelters from the elements, or screens from 
 intrusion. And there is a reciprocal action from the objects. The 
 beautiful forms and colours which were originated to satisfy the mind, 
 when wishing to express its veneration or admiration for some person 
 or object, will, by the inevitable force of association, -recall the object 
 with its correlative emotions. 
 
 This principle is well illustrated in buildings devoted to certain 
 public objects. Thus it is held suitable that when governing authori- 
 ties hold their councils for the good of the community they should be 
 assembled in buildings the structure and decoration of which are 
 such as to excite feelings of admiration or respect. If it be a 
 building occupied by the highest powers of a great nation, it is hardly 
 possible to erect an edifice commensurate with the wishes or expec- 
 tations of the people. The mere accommodation of senators in rooms 
 well lighted, airy, and of pleasant temperature, would be far below 
 what satisfies a great nation. There must be spacious antechambers, 
 lobbies, grand corridors, lofty domes, and enormous towers, which 
 have nothing to do with convenience, but which are thought fitting, 
 and are eagerly demanded and cheerfully paid for, because they 
 answer to those feelings of awe, and admiration, and attachment, 
 which are associated in patriotic minds with anything so august as the 
 assembled wisdom and concentrated government of the country. 
 
 But still more striking is the operation of this law of our being in 
 the buildings which are consecrated to religion. Whatever form the 
 religious feelings and ideas have assumed, and in connection with 
 whatever faith, whether sprung from the simple natural intuitions of 
 the race, and blended with the fictions of poets, or informed with the 
 reflections of philosophers, or whether they have been raised, refined,
 
 USES OF BEAUTY. 45 
 
 and purified by the teachings of direct Revelation, they severally 
 require (with one singular exception) that the services of their 
 worship, the ceremonies which symbolize the supernatural parts of 
 their religion, the declarations of belief in their solemn verities, the 
 chanting of their hymns of praise, the oblation of their litanies, the 
 intercessions of priests, the eloquent exhortations of ministers, what- 
 ever is uttered, whatever performed in public manifestation of the 
 religious sentiment, must require a building which shall be specially 
 set apart for the purpose, and which in its structure, its arrangements, 
 and its ornaments, shall answer to and harmonize with the greatest 
 and holiest feelings and conceptions of which our nature is susceptible. 
 Here ought to arise in our minds the highest awe and wonder, the 
 purest admiration and love ; and everything around us should corres- 
 pond with those emotions. The light should by its dimness be fitted 
 to suggest to the worshipper that he has passed from the common 
 light of day and his worldly transactions ; yet it should be tempered 
 and softened with those hues which give solemnity and tenderness to 
 the feelings ; the various members of the building should minister to 
 the sense of grandeur ; pillars, for example, by their massiveness as 
 parts, giving hints of the greatness of the whole ; and there should 
 be intimations of spaciousness and elevation as the eye wanders 
 through vistas of arches, or is invited by beautiful shafts to look 
 upwards and heavenwards. And if my readers have gone with me in 
 what I have ventured to propound, in connection with the symmetric 
 laws of nature, they will admit that the harmonic combinations of art 
 in sight and sound may tend to place the mind in an attitude fit for the 
 reception of the highest truths, and attune it to a sympathy with the 
 most hallowed feelings. 
 
 Now I am not presuming here to say whether these natural 
 tendencies of the mind to seek such sesthetical aids to the religious 
 feelings ought to have free scope, or whether they ought to be 
 repressed. About this the wise, the learned, and the pious, have 
 differed greatly, either because of the diversity of their theological 
 doctrines, or because of the great difference in the degrees of develop- 
 ment or culture which the sesthetical element has attained in their 
 respective minds. On the one side it has been held that human nature 
 is so apt to turn away from devotional feelings, or so ready to change 
 them for mere worldly emotions, that it is impossible to multiply to 
 excess those influences which tend to maintain them ; and that, with
 
 46 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 the majority of mankind, reason, and conscience, and faith, and duty 
 will not avail, unless assisted by sense and imagination ; and that 
 even in the apparently simplest forms of worship, where ceremonial 
 pomp and sacerdotal functions are most repudiated, it will be found 
 that the excitement of the psalmody, and of the burning words of 
 pulpit orators, kindling the fancy and imagination, and stirring up the 
 tragic or pathetic emotions, have an effect analogous to that which is 
 condemned in the more sesthetical modes of worship ; but, on the 
 other hand, it is urged that what are called helps by sense are, indeed, 
 hindrances to the devotional feelings, and that the mind, instead of 
 rising above the earth to the higher and holier contemplations, is 
 detained there by the seductions of human art under a false guise 
 that it is not when the eyes are feasting on delightful colours and 
 beautiful forms, and when the ears are charmed by melody it is not 
 then that the still small voice of conscience can be best listened to, or a 
 careful review be taken of our thoughts and actions, or the reasonings 
 and precepts of religious teachers be best followed or enforced. It is 
 not for me to say how far such advocacy may err on either side. I 
 am only endeavouring to examine the philosophy of the subject. 
 But I cannot but think that there is a natural affinity between the 
 Beautiful, and the Good, and the Holy. It is but too true that these 
 elements may exist separately, for as there may be a dreamy unpro- 
 ductive theopathy, or superstition devoid of morality; and as there 
 may be a hard cold virtue unwarned and unsoftened by devotion, so 
 there may be a sense of beauty without either virtue or religion. It 
 is painful to think of the evil deeds which have been planned and 
 perpetrated in the presence of a beauty thus profaned. In the 
 remains of some ancient cities we have but too many proofs, even 
 now, how little the loveliness of nature, or of the forms and colours 
 of art, availed to prevent the inhabitants from indulging in the 
 grossest vices. But beauty alone will not even avert the still more 
 hideous deeds of cruelty. If the amphitheatres of Rome, where 
 gladiators fought, and lions and tigers sprang on martyrs, if the 
 cathedral towers of Germany, Belgium, and Normandy, and the 
 arches of our ancient colleges, once reddened by the flames of penal 
 fires, nay, if the " Alpine mountains cold," and the lovely banks of 
 the Loire, could tell all that had been done in pollution of their 
 grandeur and beauty, it would seem but too plain that there have 
 been times when virtue, love, and pity received but little assistance
 
 USES OF BEAUTY. 47 
 
 from the Sublime and the Beautiful. If men are depraved and 
 habituated to vice, no gentle motive will check them : but when in- 
 clined to virtue, they are very susceptible of auxiliary influences (and 
 virtue needs to be helped) ; and it is in such cases that beauty, and 
 religion, and virtue seem to uphold and strengthen each other. 
 
 But as it is difficult to measure the influence of admonitions which 
 at the time of their utterance seem ineffectual, of the voice of loving 
 persuasion to which deaf ears may for a time be turned, of reproofs 
 of conscience which may for a time be hushed, yet as we know that 
 in other hours they may come back with all the melting or appalling 
 force of pathos and remorse, even so may return the shapes of beauty 
 once associated in the mind with all that is virtuous and venerable. 
 The melody of the psalm which tuned some of his earliest lessons in 
 virtue and religion may yet some day touch the heart of a hardened 
 criminal. And who knows but that the half-penitence of rough free- 
 booters of the olden times may have perhaps been aided by like 
 influences when they lay on some distant shore languishing with 
 fever, or smarting with wounds ; who knows but that among the 
 shapes and signs beckoning them back to goodness, not the least 
 admonitory or persuasive may have been the image in the mental eye 
 of some holy pile, surrounded with memories of innocent youth, and 
 sacred counsel, and the love of friends and kindred ! 
 
 Should it be thought, however, that we are somewhat straining 
 the function of beauty, in making it the upholder of the moral sense 
 and the helpmate of religion, yet it will not be denied that it may be 
 one, and not an uninfluential one, of the many motives which finally 
 determine action. To a character hovering over the line which marks 
 off good from evil, swayed to this side by temptations and seductions, 
 to that by conscience and duty, the sense of what is fair as well as 
 good may afford the preponderating motive. 
 
 But, not to press this view, there are actions and emotions which 
 do not belong to the merely virtuous, and the merely just and bene- 
 volent, but which take their tone and colour from the sense of the 
 Beautiful. Heroic deeds, the graces of life, the refinements of feeling, 
 and all that is understood by such terms as nobility of soul and 
 elevation of character, are more or less allied in their nature, their 
 origin, and their operations, to that sentiment which we have been 
 engaged in considering. Think for one moment what the world would 
 be without it. Goodness, love, worship, would remain. Without
 
 48 THE PRINCIPLES OF BEAUTY. 
 
 these, indeed, it would be utter darkness and devildom. But where- 
 is the charm of life ? Where are the flowers of the world, where the 
 hues of rising and setting suns, and where the nightly splendours ? 
 Where are the spells of melody, where the fascination of eloquence, 
 the inspirations of poetry, the colours of romance, the revelations of 
 art ? Gone ; and with the loss of all that glory, and grandeur, and 
 beaxity, it must, as human hearts and minds are usually constituted, 
 it must be more difficult to be good, and loving, and holy. The old 
 Greeks held the good and the fair in one word, KU\OV : and thus sang 
 one of them (Theognis) more than 500 years before our era: 
 
 " Mnses and Graces, daughters of high Jove, 
 When erst ye left your glorious seats above, 
 To bless the bridal of that wondrous pair, 
 Cadmus and Harmonia fair, 
 Your voices pealed a divine air : 
 
 ' What is good and fair 
 
 Shall ever be our care.' 
 Thus the burthen of it rang : 
 
 ' That shall not be our care, 
 
 Which is not good and fair.' 
 Such were the words your lips immortal sang."
 
 
 
 
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 PL. VI
 
 WASTE. 
 
 A LECTUEE DELIVERED AT THE BKISTOL INSTITUTION, 
 FEBKUAEY 10, 1863. 
 
 % the student of Final Causes there are no facts in nature that 
 on -a first view present more difficulties than those which belong 
 to decay and destruction. Fertile lands in a very few hours 
 overspread by a desolating inroad of the sea, on the rfetreat of 
 which, if ever it does withdraw, there is left for a time a sandy, stony 
 desert ; plants of exquisite organisation springing above the soil and 
 dying undeveloped ; forests and prairies consumed by fire ; myriads of 
 animals, multitudes of human beings perishing in full life and strength : 
 these and many like facts are at first sight startling. The mighty, 
 ever-teeming mother Earth is she thwarted by some malignant 
 power in her schemes of beneficence ? or, by some blind law of pro- 
 ductiveness, does she go on for ever throwing off her wonderful 
 progeny, careless, when they have left her bosom, whether they live 
 or die, or what ultimate destiny awaits them ? 
 
 But we will not now ask questions. Let us survey in detail a few 
 of the phenomena of waste, and either when they are under our eyes, 
 or when we are recalling them, some obvious enquiries will suggest 
 themselves. 
 
 Among the fragile forms of the animated world around us, one is 
 so used to the sight of destruction, that the questions alluded to are 
 almost less likely to arise than when, by some accidental circumstance, 
 we become aware of decay among objects which had seemed to be 
 fixed and enduring. I shall not easily forget the impression made upon 
 me one day, when I stood for the first time in a scene of savage 
 

 
 50 WASTE. 
 
 grandeur, which is, I dare say, well known to many of this audience 
 the upper region of the Mer de Glace. It was the early morning ; 
 some golden light had just begun to shoot into the deep indigo of the 
 sky above the mountains in the east ; and while I was endeavouring 
 to grasp the more salient points of that wonderful scene, fearing lest 
 some essential element of its sublimity might be overlooked, my atten- 
 tion was caught by sounds of crashing, unlike the solemn peals with 
 which distant avalanches announce their descent, and I asked the guide 
 what was the cause of those sounds. He told me, with the indifference 
 of a person to whom that which I enquired about was a matter of 
 daily routine, that it was only the breaking and falling down of masses 
 of rock in the mountains. And there, assuredly, as I looked up 
 towards the rugged peak of the Charmoz, and observed attentively the 
 different slopes, I could see masses of stone continually tumbling down ; 
 small enough in the distance, but quite discernible ; and every few 
 seconds or so, the sound was repeated. Now the obvious thought that 
 arose was, if those sounds, or, rather, the causes of them, were 
 always going on, was not that mountain falling away piecemeal, and 
 destined to leave its giant limbs in the valleys, which would, in time, 
 be no longer valleys, but plains ? The peaks and the ridges looked so 
 broken and jagged and splintery against the sky, that, with that sound 
 constantly in one's ears, it was difficult to avoid expecting that they 
 might snap off before our eyes ; forgetful for a moment of the vast 
 dimensions of what looked like needles and sword-blades. I know 
 not whether those peaks and ridges have really had any of their lines 
 and angles altered since they were first accurately observed ; but we 
 may be certain that, whether their chief features have changed or not 
 within the records of human generations, those everlasting hills are 
 everlasting only to the bodily eye of man, that cannot see changes on 
 so large a scale, and that they are surely wasting and crumbling to 
 decay. 
 
 But any one who has observed the moraine of a glacier might 
 interpose, Surely it is not necessary to strain the eyes to the mountains 
 themselves, when, immediately at their feet, proofs of destruction or 
 disintegration are visible in blocks of granite, some of immense size, 
 either still resting on the ice, or left on the sides of the ice-river along 
 which the glacier once descended, but from which it has of late years 
 withdrawn, leaving, however, these proofs of its gigantic powers both 
 of support and of conveyance.
 
 IN THE EARTH'S SURFACE. 51 
 
 Striking as is this work of demolition in stupendous masses of the 
 earth's substance, there is not less sure a work of destruction effected, 
 though in a somewhat less imposing way, by rivers that are perpetually 
 wearing down the surfaces which they traverse, and carrying the results 
 of their attrition to the plains below. Rain-falls even have their effects, 
 and sometimes on a large scale, as when by sudden condensation of 
 great masses of vapour the mountain torrents are enormously swollen. 
 Such rocks as the stratified horizontal sandstone may in this manner 
 be reduced to sand and gravel by the flooded streams. Sir C. Lyell, 
 describing the action of such rain-falls on the south face of the Khasia, 
 or Garrow Mountains in Eastern Bengal, says " so great is the super- 
 ficial waste or denudation, that what would otherwise be a rich and 
 luxuriantly wooded region is converted into a wild and barren moor- 
 land." 
 
 Mr. Jukes, in an opening address before the Geological Section of 
 the British Association at Cambridge (1862), when speaking of the 
 wearing down force exerted by rains, gave as an instance the loss of 
 altitude sustained by the great limestone range of the south of Ireland, 
 a loss computed to be as much as from 300 to 400 feet. 
 
 The waste of land in landslips is too well known for us to dwell 
 upon it, as well as the corroding effect of the sea on shores. In 
 certain situations on the eastern and southern coasts of our own island, 
 the signs of such destruction are but too obvious. When the shores 
 consist of brittle, crumbling substances, as in the tertiary strata, such 
 effects do not surprise one. But the harder and more resistant rocks 
 are not safe from the devastations of the ocean. On the northern 
 coasts of Great Britain may be seen some very striking remains of 
 rocks that would a priori have seemed invulnerable. Granite, gneiss, 
 mica-slate, serpentine, greenstone, porphyry, stand in broken masses, 
 with rent and angular forms, that attest in a wild picturesque manner 
 the terrible battering to which they have been subjected by the violence 
 of the Atlantic waves urged on by westerly gales. In some parts the 
 inroads of the sea are made comparatively easy by the decomposition 
 of soft granite. When the waves have once had access by such means, 
 they are not slow to improve their opportunity, and they widen the 
 breach by rude mechanical force. But even without this preliminary 
 sapping, the sea will battle against a rampart of porphyry, " with all 
 the force of great artillery," says Dr. Hibbert, till it has forced an 
 entrance.* 
 
 * See Lyell's " Elements of Geology," p. 300.
 
 52 WASTE. 
 
 The wasting power of water is exhibited in one part of Europe in 
 forms most strange and fantastic. In Saxon Switzerland, as it is called, 
 or rather miscalled, you look down from a wooded height into a valley 
 filled with rocks, which, to the dullest imagination, call up the images 
 of castles, pillars, obelisks, broken colonnades, rude sculptured tombs, 
 and every species of ruin or rough-hewn work in stone that the eye 
 may have ever seen. These singular forms are the remnants of basaltic 
 rocks, which have in geologic periods been rudely dealt with by waters, 
 eaten into, worn down, battered and broken. 
 
 The desolations from igneous forces, whether let loose on the 
 surface of the earth from the fiery mouths of volcanoes, or pent up in 
 the interior, and made manifest in earthquakes, belong to the veriest 
 commonplace of devastation, and need only this passing allusion. 
 
 The waste of organic forms and of their life is exemplified in that 
 group of phenomena, which Mr. Darwin has so well described as 
 resulting from, the struggle for existence. " We behold the face of 
 nature," he says, " bright with gladness, and we often see superabun- 
 dance of food ; we do not see, or we forget, that the birds which are 
 idly singing round us mostly live on insects or seeds, and are thus 
 constantly destroying life ; or we forget how largely these songsters, 
 or their eggs, or their nestlings, are destroyed by birds and beasts of 
 prey." He tells us how seedlings are destroyed in vast numbers by 
 various enemies ; for once on a small piece of ground he found that 
 out of 357 seedlings no less than 295 were destroyed. The more 
 vigorous plants destroyed the weaker ones, even when fully grown ; 
 " thus out of twenty species growing on a little plot of turf (three feet 
 by four), nine perished from the other species being allowed to grow 
 up freely." 
 
 Destruction on a large scale is effected by predatory animals. It 
 has been calculated that were sportsmen to remain idle for a season 
 there would be no increase of game, unless the gamekeepers were 
 constantly on the watch to destroy vermin. Inclemencies of season 
 work great havoc ; sometimes directly, by cutting off a supply of food, 
 but still more so indirectly, by increasing the competition with other 
 species. How vegetable growths may be kept down and seem to 
 disappear under the destruction of animals, is strikingly shown by the 
 effects of enclosure. I remember noticing many years ago in the 
 Highlands of Scotland, at Pitlochry, near the pass of Killicrankie, 
 that though the profusion of birch trees in some situations indicated
 
 IN ANIMAL LIFE. 53 
 
 that they were indigenous, yet the partiality of their distribution 
 seemed opposed to the idea, for they were wanting on large tracts that 
 appeared to present the same soil, the same substrata, and the same 
 qualities of atmosphere. It was explained to me by my friend Pro- 
 fessor Forbes that the differences depended on enclosure, and that it 
 would be only necessary to fence in a piece of ground so as to prevent 
 the access of cattle, and birches would shew themselves in abundance. 
 When Mr. Darwin's book came into my hands, I was interested in 
 finding that this naturalist had made a like observation as to fir trees.* 
 
 Very extensive destruction is sometimes brought on the vegetable 
 world by accidents, or by the carelessness of man. Thus, one has 
 read of grass-land on fire over miles of plain, and of vast forests laid 
 waste in the same manner ; the combustion having arisen from neglect 
 in extinguishing a fire that had been used by some wandering tribe or 
 party of travellers. 
 
 Animals are extinguished on a large scale by human agency. 
 " That the extinction of many of the existing races of animals must 
 soon take place," says Dr. Mantell, "from the immense destruction 
 occasioned by man, cannot admit of doubt. In those which supply 
 fur, a remarkable proof of this inference is cited in a late number of 
 ' The American Journal of Science.' Immediately after South Georgia 
 was explored by Captain Cook, 1771, the Americans commenced 
 carrying seal skins from thence to China, where they obtained most 
 exorbitant prices. One million two hundred thousand skins have been 
 taken from that island alone since that period ; and nearly an equal 
 number from the Island of Desolation ! The number of the fur seals 
 killed in the South Shetland Isles (s. lat. 63), in 1821 and 1822, 
 amounted to three hundred and twenty thousand. This valuable 
 animal is now almost extinct in all these islands. From the most 
 authentic statements it appears certain that the fur trade must hence- 
 forward decline, since the advanced state of Geographical Science shows 
 that no new countries remain to be explored. In North America the 
 animals are slowly decreasing, from the persevering efforts and the 
 indiscriminate slaughter practised by the hunters, and by the appro- 
 priation to the use of man of those forests and rivers which have once 
 .afforded them food and protection."! 
 
 * " Origin of Species," p. 71. 
 t Dr. Mantell's " Wonders of Geology," vol. i., p. 104.
 
 54 WASTE. 
 
 But all instances of destruction of vegetable and animal life on the 
 present surface of the earth are as nothing compared with the evidences 
 presented in older strata. It would be incredible, had we not un- 
 equivocal proof given to the senses, that there had been such extensive 
 destruction of vegetable forms as the coal measures reveal : the coal 
 itself being, as you know, the product of the decomposition of coni- 
 ferous plants. As to animal life, it is enough to think of the extensive 
 coral reefs and islands built up by animals ; and of mountains nearly 
 composed of the debris of animals, as in the oolite which runs through 
 a great part of Europe, and of the enormous collection of encrinitic 
 remains in the mountain-limestone. 
 
 And almost everywhere we find the debris of living forms scattered, 
 or densely packed in their stony beds, to a degree that makes the 
 earth seem a great collection of catacombs a vast necropolis. It is 
 by a strong effort of the imagination that we conceive those strata to 
 have been once scenes of beauty and verdure and luxuriance, shadowed 
 by stately palms, and populous with animal tribes ; and it is rather a 
 painful effort to reflect on the ruin and desolation and destruction that 
 overtook creatures into which God had breathed the breath of life, 
 however little else there may have been in these beings to excite our- 
 sympathy. In our own experience we see only the destruction of 
 individuals, however numerous, the species still remaining ; but the 
 palaeontologist discovers that in the worlds under his survey Nature was- 
 scarcely more conservative of species than of individuals. 
 
 So careful of the type ! but no, 
 
 From scarped cliff and quarried stone 
 
 She cries " A thousand types are gone ! 
 I care for nothing ; all shall go." 
 
 And how has man been wasted ! I will not here say how he has 
 been wasted by himself, by his own folly and wickedness ; nor how 
 he has been wasted by his fellow-man, by greed and recklessness 
 and oppression and cruelty. But he has seemed to be wasted by the 
 elements, by agencies over which human will and human thought 
 could have no control; starved by the failure of crops, poisoned in 
 marshes and jungles, swept away by floods, swallowed up by earth- 
 quakes, consumed by the lava, or choked and buried in the ashes of 
 volcanoes, drowned in angry or perfidious seas, and, above all, smitten 
 by those unseen angels of death whose wings are spread on mysterious 
 pestilences.
 
 IN HUMAN LIFE FROM PLAGUES. 55 
 
 As to the scale on which, human beings have perished from the 
 last-named cause, we may instance the devastation of the Black 
 Plague, in the fourteenth century. Here are one or two items taken 
 from Hecker's " Epidemics of the Middle Ages," p. 23 : 
 
 In Florence, died of the Black Plague 60,000 
 
 " Venice 100,000 
 
 " Marseilles, in one month ... 16,000 
 
 " Sienna 70,000 
 
 " Paris 50,000 
 
 " St. Denys 14,000 
 
 " Avignon 60,000 
 
 " Strasburg 16,000 
 
 " Liibeck 9,000 
 
 " Basle 14,000 
 
 " Erfurt, at least 16,000 
 
 " Weimar 5,000 
 
 " Limburg 2,500 
 
 " London, at least , 100,000 
 
 " Norwich 51,100 
 
 To which may be added 
 
 Franciscan Friars in Germany 124,434 
 
 Minorites in Italy 30,000 
 
 In many places in France not more than two out of twenty of the inhabitants 
 were left alive, and the capital felt the fury of the plague alike in the palace 
 and the cot. 
 
 *********** 
 The churchyards were soon unable to contain the dead, and many houses left 
 without inhabitants fell to ruins. In Avignon, the Pope found it necessary to 
 consecrate the Ehone, that bodies might be thrown into the river without delay, as 
 the churchyards would no longer hold them ; so, likewise, in all populous cities, 
 extraordinary measures were adopted, in order speedily to dispose of the dead. In 
 Vienna, where for some time 1,200 inhabitants died daily, the interment of corpses 
 in the churchyards and within the churches, was forthwith prohibited, and the dead 
 were then arranged in layers, by thousands, in six large pits outside the city, as had 
 already been done in Cairo and Paris. Ibid., p. 25. 
 
 I have said that I would not speak of that destruction of man 
 which has come from the will of man ; else what waste might appear 
 before us in the carnage of battles, the slaughter of storm and sack, 
 wholesale murders by wicked kings, wholesale butcheries by savage 
 mobs, and the torturing deaths instigated by fanatical and malignant 
 priests. But one cannot wholly exclude wars from the category of 
 those desolations which fall upon man against his will, when one 
 thinks by how few minds and hands some of the most devastating 
 wars have been directed.
 
 56 WASTE. 
 
 When 60,000 soldiers lay stretched on the frozen plain of Eylau, 
 and nearly a like number under a scorching sun on the field of 
 "Wagram, it cannot be said that, though struck down in war, they 
 were the victims of their own violent passions. They lay there stiff 
 in death, or writhing in anguish, because the ambition of one man 
 willed it ; the heart of one man was reckless of the amount of suffer- 
 ing and misery and death, at which he purchased his ends, provided 
 only he did attain them. Had a plague swept over the Palatinate, the 
 people could not have been less the authors of their own calamities 
 than they were, when the savage soldiers of Duras obeyed the orders 
 issued from the salons of Versailles, with the consent of that bigoted 
 voluptuary who boasted of his descent from St. Louis. And, indeed, 
 in almost all wars but those of a purely defensive kind (and this 
 exception applies to one side 'only) we must put the destruction of 
 human life under the head of Waste; and I know not what other 
 term will do so well for the heaps of skeletons which in our own time 
 have encumbered the Khyber Pass, or which are strewn round the 
 walls of Sebastopol, and still more for the corpses now rotting on the 
 plains of Virginia. 
 
 Let us think, too, of the disappearance of whole races of mankind ; 
 and what havoc must have been made by the inroads of stronger races 
 trampling down the weak, driving them from their hunting fields, 
 planting them out from their pastures, exterminating them by the 
 cruelties, the diseases, the vices of civilized nations ; worse still, some 
 of these civilized nations (for example, the Spaniards in America), 
 smiting them down with the cross, in practical blasphemy of that 
 symbol of love and pity. Even in our own milder times, there has 
 been enough of extermination to make philanthropists set on foot a 
 society, for the protection of aboriginal races. 
 
 These are some instances of one kind of waste of human life : but 
 there is another view which indicates enormous waste, simply in the 
 undeveloped potentiality of man. If we look over the map of the 
 world, and consider how long it has been peopled, and how richly, 
 and then consider what man now is, and how little he has attained to, 
 comparatively, can we avoid thinking of waste? History tells us 
 what myriads lie buried in the old Greek and Roman lands, and in all 
 our modern Europe. Something, too, we know of the human relics 
 that are blown about in the desert dust of Egypt and Palestine. Asia, 
 mother of the nations, bewilders the imagination that tries to call up
 
 EXTINCT RACES. 57 
 
 the series of races that, according to the most limited chronology, 
 have hung on her mighty breast. "Whoever has dared to push towards 
 the pestilential interior of that quarter of the world, the fringe only of 
 which, till in these latter days, travellers have been contented to touch, 
 has found human life ever teeming, ever exhaustless ; while, in what 
 we call the New World, cities actually overgrown by ancient forests, 
 and remains of old polities long worn out, and traces of a civilization 
 which it must have taken ages to accomplish, and which it has taken 
 ages to efface, tell how man there, too, has abounded. I say nothing 
 of the tribes now dimly looming through the mists which have 
 enveloped the primeval anthropology of the earth, but which have had 
 some light thrown upon them by the combined researches of the anti- 
 quarians and naturalists of these latter days. Every part of the 
 survey increases our awe, and brings back on us a humiliating feeling 
 of ignorance, far surpassing that which ensues on the contemplation of 
 fossil infusoria and fossil saurians. We are sure, from various evi- 
 dences, that it must have been all for ultimate good ; how, we know 
 not. Allow that the intellectual, and moral, and religious development 
 of one race, is no measure for that of another, and that the capacities 
 and susceptibilities in these respects are not equal nor alike ; still in 
 the lowest types of man there are germs of powers, possibilities of 
 being, enough to make the inevitable question start to the mind, 
 what have all these men and women done since they breathed the 
 breath of life ? These countless tribes, with their quick senses, their 
 nimble apprehensions, their marvellous hands, their erect stature, 
 their " large discourse of reason," and their shaping fancies ; what 
 have they done in proportion to their numbers? Alas! the " vanity 
 of vanities," which the preacher so mournfully ejaculated nigh three 
 thousand years ago, was but another formula for what we are trying 
 to discourse of under the category of Waste. 
 
 And yet something has been done ; one race has given monuments 
 to all succeeding ages of the height to which philosophy, and poetry, 
 and art can rise : another of the power which men may attain by force 
 of law and patriotism, and political organization ; another of the gifts 
 of God in the endowment and development of religious sense and 
 religious knowledge ; and the men of the present time have learned 
 wonderful mechanical arts, and the virtues of social love and social 
 compassion. 
 
 Yes, something has been done in some parts of the world. But,
 
 58 WASTE. 
 
 I 
 
 alas ! of that which has been done how much has perished ! Cities 
 innumerable have been absolutely swept away, and of the greatest the 
 remains are meagre ; Babylon and Nineveh marked only by mounds, 
 till the genius and industry of this age disinterred some wonderful 
 relics ; Thebes, with comparatively few fragments of temples, and 
 obelisks, and sphinxes, and gigantic statues, yet unburied by the 
 sand ; Athens, not even the skeleton of its former strength and beauty, 
 but with only a mutilated member here and there ; and Rome, stand- 
 ing on the ruins of at least three predecessors ; more, perhaps lying 
 buried beneath than has since stood above, even when that, of which 
 so little is left, was unimpaired. To these the least instructed in 
 history will be able to add a long catalogue of other cities, of which a 
 few present picturesque remains like Baalbec and Palmyra, others 
 that survive only in their names, others with so little remaining except 
 their names, that, like the Ephesus of Mr. Falkener, it is only to be 
 reconstructed by means of the utmost ingenuity, fortified by all the 
 resources of archselogical knowledge, and artistic skill, and classical 
 scholarship. But long lists of names of cities might be culled from 
 ancient authors which are literally dead names, not having one single 
 association in our minds, at least in ordinary minds. And, again, 
 figures might be brought forward recounting the numbers of cities, 
 the names of which have vanished even from the countries where they 
 stood. It is an old lament, the lament over perished cities. Listen, 
 for one moment, to this from the preface to Burton's " Anatomy of 
 Melancholy" : 
 
 Tell me, politicians, why is the fruitful Palestina, noble Greece, Egypt, Asia 
 Minor, so much decayed, and (mere carcases now) fain from what they were ? The 
 ground is the same ; but the government is altered ; the people are grown slothful, 
 idle; their good husbandry, policy and industry is decayed. Nonfatigata aut ej/eta 
 humus (as Columella well informs Sylvinus), sed nostrd Jit inertia, &c. May a man 
 believe that which Aristotle, in his Politicks, Pausanias, Stephanus, Sophianus, 
 Gerbelius, relate of Old Greece ? I finde heretofore 70 cities in Epirus (overthrown 
 by Paulus ^Emilius), a goodly province in times past, now left desolate of good 
 towns, and almost inhabitants; 62 cities in Macedonia, in Strabo's time. I find 30 
 in Laconia, but now scarce so many villages, saith Gerbelius. If any man, from 
 Mount Taygetus, should view the countrey round about, and see tot delicias, tot 
 urbes per Peloponnesum dispersas, so many delicate and brave built cities, with such 
 cost and exquisite cunning, so neatly set out in Peleponnesus, he should perceive 
 them now ruinous and overthrown, burnt, waste, desolate, and laid level with the 
 ground. Incredible dictu, &c. And as he laments, Quis talia fando, Temperet a 
 lachrymis ? Quis tarn durus aut ferreus (so he prosecutes it), who is he that can
 
 PERISHED CITIES. 59 
 
 sufficiently condole and commiserate these ruins ? Where are those 4000 cities of 
 Egypt ; those hundred cities in Crete ? Are they now come to two ? What saith 
 Pliny and ./Elian of Old Italy ? There were, in former ages, 1160 cities : Blondus 
 aud Machiavel both grant them now nothing near so populous and full of good 
 towns as in the time of Augustus (for now Leander Abertus can find but 300 at 
 most), and, if we may give credit to Livy, not then so strong and puissant as of old : 
 " Tliey mustered 70 legions in former times, which now tin known world will scarce 
 yield." Alexander built 70 cities in a short space for his part : our Sultans and 
 Turkes demolish twice as many, and leave all desolate. Many will not believe but 
 that our island of Great Britain is now more populous than ever it was ; yet let 
 them read Bede, Leland, and others ; they shall finde it most flourished in the Saxon 
 Heptarchy, and in the Conquerours time was far better inhabited, than at this 
 present. See that Doomsday Book ; and shew me those thousands of parishes, 
 which are now decayed, cities ruined, villages depopulated, &c. 
 
 But all such destruction points mainly to the waste of the larger 
 works of man's hands, though there was indeed much of other waste, 
 much waste of the arts and the products of the arts that made life 
 happy and enjoyable, and that elevated and embellished it (as for 
 instance what sculptures demolished, what frescoes effaced !) and the 
 loss of the genius and knowledge and skill which planned those cities, 
 with all their towers and domes and temples, their theatres and 
 palaces. But there has been still greater waste of thought in the 
 lost literature of the world, partly because the characters cannot be 
 read, still more because the records are gone, the books have perished. 
 And it is a melancholy reflection that vast stores of knowledge so pain- 
 fully hived up, that finest gems of thought so carefully polished, so 
 carefully set, should have been not merely lost by the accidents of 
 time, but should have also been recklessly and blindly destroyed by 
 the animosity of hostile nations and hostile creeds. 
 
 " The literary treasures of antiquity," says Mr. D'Israeli, " have 
 suffered from the malice of men, as well as that of time. It is 
 remarkable that conquerors, in the moments of victory, or in the 
 unsparing devastation of their rage, have not been satisfied with 
 destroying men, but have even carried their vengeance to booh. The 
 Komans burnt the books of the Jews, of the Christians, and the 
 Philosophers ; the Jews burnt the books of the Christians and the 
 Pagans; and the Christians burnt the books of the Pagans and the 
 Jews. The greater part of the books of Origen and other heretics were 
 continually burnt by the orthodox party." Gibbon pathetically de- 
 scribes the empty library of Alexandria, after the Christians had 
 destroyed it. "The valuable library of Alexandria was pillaged or
 
 60 WASTE. 
 
 destroyed ; and nearly twenty years afterwards the appearance of 
 the empty shelves excited the regret and indignation of every spectator, 
 whose mind was not totally darkened by religious prejudice. The 
 compositions of ancient genius, so many of which have irretrievably 
 perished, might surely have been excepted from the wreck of idolatry, 
 for the amusement and instruction of succeeding ages ; and either the 
 zeal or avarice of the Archbishop might have been satiated with the 
 rich spoils which were the reward of his victory." 
 
 But the waste of disuse suggests reflections scarcely less mournful. 
 Have you not felt when pacing along the galleries of great libraries, 
 glancing from side to side at the labels and names on those piled up 
 treasures, with their blazonry as faded and pale as the escutcheons in 
 the adjoining churches, have you not felt that those titles to immor- 
 tality (for such the poor departed authors in the pride of their hearts 
 conceived them to be), were, after all, the most impressive lessons that 
 could be taught of the transitoriness of human glory, of the vanity of 
 human expectations ? It is sad to walk in a churchyard over the graves 
 of nameless dead, it is sadder to walk through cloisters of venerable 
 colleges and cathedrals, and to see on the foot- worn pavement, and on. 
 the walls laden with pompous monuments, the names of men who, for 
 all that we or thousands like us know about them, might just as well 
 have been nameless. In vain does the poor weak voice cry out from 
 the tomb, siste viator ! We do not stop, for why should we ? the 
 tenant's name is nothing to us. We linger only a moment to admire 
 the turn of phrase in the panegyric, or even, alas ! only to smile at its 
 quaint conceits ; and if a serious thought comes over us it is not for 
 those unknown dead, but for the sadness of the common doom that 
 involves the hopes and joys and labours of all our race, quam vana 
 sint spes qwmfluxa sint hominum gaudia, " how vain the hopes of men, 
 how fleeting are their joys." And so, I say, it is very mournful to 
 glance at those unknown names and titles in our great libraries, which, 
 indeed, are great cemeteries ; and there lie the authors with all their 
 glorious thoughts, their fine moralizings, their convincing arguments 
 and eloquent admonitions, all coffined in the very volumes that were to 
 keep them ever living ; and the titles on the labels are little better 
 than epitaphs, and for all that they bring to our minds, there might as 
 well have been only a simple " Hie jacet" 
 
 Such thoughts as these give us hints of the waste of oblivion. We 
 just descry the objects before they are finally drawn behind the im-
 
 THE LAW OF CHANGE. 61 
 
 penetrable curtain. But who shall conjecture what great, and heroic, 
 and beneficent beings, what glorious and beautiful works, have been 
 gathered into the eternal darkness, leaving not one wreck or token to 
 tell the after ages how woeful has been their loss ? 
 
 Under the term Waste, I have included the premature decay, or 
 the destruction of that which has seemed to have a definite work to 
 fulfil, or a definite place in the order and constitution of the universe. 
 Instances have arisen before our minds in the perishing of organic 
 forms before they have matured, in human beings cut off in their 
 prime, in the destruction of human works, in the breaking up of parts 
 of the material fabric of the world. We have seen enough to prove- 
 that such phenomena, anomalous as they at first sight appear, are too 
 numerous to be regarded as exceptional. Such seeming chaos must 
 somehow belong to the universal kosmos, for there is a continuity in 
 the disruptions, a constancy in the changes, a sort of rhythm in the 
 discords. Change is the soul of the world ; all things are in flux, and 
 there is nothing stationary but in the thought of man. He sees the 
 seed sprout, and the stem spring up, and the flower blossom, and the 
 seed form and fall, and he thinks that this is to happen over and over 
 again in the same order. If in reality he saw the same things and 
 the same forces at work, he would assuredly see the same results, for 
 no one will dispute that the same antecedents will beget the same con- 
 sequents. But he is in reality looking at different things, which only 
 seem to be the same. 
 
 The faith in nature, and in her constancy and perfection, according 
 to man's notion of constancy and perfection, leads to many errors of~ 
 inference. The prevalence of definite forms in organic life has much 
 to do with the idea in question. Yet how often is this same work of 
 nature incomplete. You can scarcely find a plant with every leaf or 
 petal perfect, scarcely an animal in which there is not some defect,, 
 however trifling. The soil and the atmosphere, to which the seed and 
 the animal are indigeneous, are a part of nature, as well as the organic 
 beings in question ; but the one often does not bear, and the other is 
 cut ofl 7 immature. Such facts belong as much to the system of nature, 
 as the perfect organisms growing and flourishing, and they all come 
 under the law of change and transmutation ; and if we could see all, 
 we should perceive that out of the decay and death life was ever
 
 2 WASTE. 
 
 springing. Individual leaves, or blossoms, or seeds, or whole plants, 
 may fail ; but look at the ever-returning wealth of foliage, and the 
 never failing flowers, and the teeming produce, and the swarming 
 flocks and herds ! The contingencies of blight and decay and destruc- 
 tion are provided against by a productiveness that will more than 
 compensate for such losses. And those casualties, disturbing and 
 distracting as they seem, would, if traced along their several lines and 
 clusters of causes, be seen to bear the same order and arrangement as 
 the phenomena which we more easily apprehend ; and we should find 
 all subordinated to laws of change, revolution, motion. The member 
 must shrink, or be cast off, for the sake of the individual form ; and 
 the individual form goes for nothing in comparison with the species ; 
 and the species must end, when the time is come for the conditions of 
 its existence to be altered. 
 
 Lightning and tempest volcanoes and earthquakes fog and frost 
 drought and deluge dearth and blight and poison old age, disease 
 and death, all belong to the same plan as sunshine, dews, and showers ; 
 and verdure, bloom, and vintage ; and youth and health and strength 
 and beauty. 
 
 It is the shortness of our time on earth, the limitation to our own 
 powers of production, that makes us stand aghast at the contemplation 
 of what we call waste. We propose to ourselves definite ends, and 
 for these we work, and design, and plan, and go through endless per- 
 plexities, and encounter endless obstacles ; and if all our deliberations 
 and contrivances and resolves and exertions fail in their purpose, we 
 feel that our thought and care and toil have been spent in vain. And 
 our hearts, as well as our minds and hands, may be disappointed. 
 Ambition frustrated, hopes defeated, affections bereaved or blighted, 
 these, too, cause man to say, Why all these throbbings, and agitations, 
 and dreamings, and yearnings, if they were to come to nothing? 
 Would it not be better not to feel, than to look back on such profitless 
 expenditure of feelings "the weary chase the wasted hour! " But 
 man sees not as God sees. 
 
 " The One remains, the many change and pass, 
 Heaven's light for ever shines, earth's shadows fly ; 
 Life, like a dome of many colour'd glass, 
 Stains the white radiance of eternity." 
 
 But the discontent of man comes from his greatness as well as from 
 his littleness. It is because he has done so much with so much strength
 
 HUMAN LIMITATIONS. 63 
 
 and skill, that he is vexed that the work of his hands does not always 
 accomplish his wishes, or that, when they have been completed, still 
 the works are not abiding. Lord of Nature and her finite beings, 
 subjugating the qualities of matter and the forces of matter to his will 
 and purpose ; creating nothing, but taking command of the powers of 
 nature and compelling them to work under new combinations, so as to 
 supply his wants, and augment his pleasures, and gratify his pride ; 
 and dealing with form and colour and sound, so that things in the 
 outward world shall be copies of the ideas in his mind, and present 
 to other men, and for ages on ages, the same thoughts and feelings 
 which he was the first to conceive; he is dissatisfied when, in the 
 courses of time, and the fatal conjunctures of chance, the things which 
 he had bound together fall asunder, and the old undisciplined forces 
 of nature resume their sway, and the primitive combinations of elements 
 return to what they were, before he took possession of them, and set 
 them in new places, and gave them new work and new functions ; and 
 he is mortified because his webs are unwoven, and his compositions 
 dissolved, and his forms effaced; and he sighs out his "vanity of 
 vanities," as if he had a right that his works should abide for ever. 
 And from this state of feeling he is apt when looking at the works 
 which are none of his, to transfer his sentiments, or to extend his 
 sympathy to the gods themselves ; for he mourns over the waste of the 
 riches, and over the losses and destruction and decay of the works of 
 nature, as if they were his own. But this superfluous lamentation 
 and compassion comes from his shortsightedness. 
 
 In the processes of nature we must look beyond the seemingly 
 marked divisions. These are mere resting places for mortal thought. 
 Combinations and compositions are but for a time. The elements, of 
 which they are made, arrange themselves ever anew. The form seems 
 to vanish, but its essence has not melted away ; it has become another, 
 it is transformed. 
 
 Is it asked, why were not things differently adjusted ? Why the 
 struggle for life ? Why so precarious a dependence on the elements ? 
 Why those fatal competitions and conflicts ? Why the ineffectual 
 battle of the weak with the strong ? Why should the mights almost 
 always become the rights ? Why such profuseness in production, only 
 to provide for the certainty of failure and extinction ? Why should 
 humanity have been made so prone to multiplication, that, in order to 
 .maintain a due proportion to the means of subsistence, there must be
 
 64 WASTE. 
 
 reductions by such terrible processes as war, pestilence, and famine ? 
 These and a thousand like questions are the absurd and unprofitable 
 speculations of human ignorance. 
 
 If, with our limited range of view, standing, as we do, on so very 
 low a terrace for any prospect of the universe, if even so standing 
 and looking, we can discover a predominance of good over evil, and 
 discern that some of the works of ravage and dissolution lead on to- 
 happiness and beauty, we ought to be content and believe that it is so- 
 with all. And the more we reflect, the more we shall be convinced 
 that the waste, over which we mourn, is not really waste but transfor- 
 mation, the most striking type of which is seen in the mutual changes 
 of the great forces of nature ; heat passing into electricity, this into 
 chemical attraction, and this into mechanical motion, and this again 
 back into heat and light. For these forces are ever vanishing, ever 
 re-appearing, ever destroyed yet ever preserved, going through endless 
 phases of regenesis by virtue of their reciprocal convertibility. 
 
 Moreover, if we review, though hastily, the ground which has been 
 traversed, we shall perceive that, in some instances, phenomena, which 
 appeared at first sight very disastrous, are balanced by compensations, 
 or prove to have been of only temporary duration. The fabric of the 
 solid earth may be broken and dissolved in one part, but it is built up 
 and added to in another. The rivers that rush down the mountain, 
 ploughing it or planing it away, are elsewhere " sowing the continents 
 to be." " The mud, sand, and other detritus," says Dr. Mantell, "thus* 
 produced, are reconsolidated by certain chemical changes which are in. 
 constant activity, both on the land and in the depths of the ocean, and 
 new rocks are thus in progress of formation." " Elevations and subsi- 
 dences," says Dr. Buckland, "inclinations and contortions, fractures and 
 dislocations, are phenomena which although at first sight they present 
 only the appearance of disorder and confusion, yet, when fully under- 
 stood, demonstrate the existence of order, method and design, even in 
 the operations of the most turbulent among the many mighty physical 
 forces, which have affected the terraqueous globe." 
 
 Again, while the sea makes such encroachments on the land as we 
 noticed in the earlier part of the lecture, we know, on the other hand, 
 that it retires from other shores, leaving vast tracts of fertile land 
 reclaimable by man's industry; and there are names on our maps, 
 which tell that the towns which bore them were once sea harbours,,, 
 though now lying far inland.
 
 THE LAW OF COMPENSATION. 65 
 
 The very deaths of plants must give life to innumerable other 
 forms ; and our artificial system of fertilization obviously consists in 
 making use of the remains of organic beings which have perished. 
 But all examples of such conversion of loss into gain shrink in extent 
 before the great carboniferous deposits. Those spoils of ancient forests 
 were transported to lakes and estuaries, and there buried, or, we 
 should rather say, stored up in subterranean treasure-houses for the 
 future use of man, and then by a series of volcanic revolutions lifted 
 up to within his reach. It was not for nothing that the grand and 
 stately forests of palms were sepulchred in the depths of the earth. 
 But for all that enormous destruction, where would have been the 
 blazing hearths of England ? where those wonderful changes, social 
 and national, that are involved in the mechanical applications of 
 steam ? 
 
 In adducing some striking instances of the devastations of pesti- 
 lence, we went back to the fourteenth century. There have been 
 many terrible plagues since that Black Plague, and the cholera of our 
 own time is not to be forgotten. But still there has been a notable 
 though a gradual diminution of such visitations. The steady progress of 
 improvement in sanitary knowledge and sanitary practice, at least in 
 Europe, has abated much of the virulence of the diseases that were 
 formerly so destructive. And the great triumphs of Jenner's discovery 
 are never to be kept out of view, though one of the very effects of it 
 has been that of removing from sight the signs of the existence of that 
 evil which his genius and perseverance taught man to avert. Of many 
 diseases the mortality has been greatly reduced by the advance of 
 science ; and even as to epidemics, though, when they have come, they 
 have been apt to exact their dues, with a frightful rigour, from those 
 who have fallen within their power ; yet there is good reason for 
 believing, that in the progress of social improvements they will find 
 fewer and fewer subjects. 
 
 The lost literature of the world, as we glanced at it, seemed a 
 woeful illustration of waste. But as to even this deprivation we can 
 discern some topics of solace and reconcilement. Of what has perished 
 it is probable that a large part was not worth preserving ; another 
 part having fulfilled its temporary function has died away ; and of 
 another part it may be said, that what was really valuable in it has 
 been insensibly gathered into the collective thoughts of educated 
 minds. There have been books which were valuable for the know-
 
 66 WASTE. 
 
 ledge they contained : but their essence has long since been distilled 
 and absorbed into the general knowledge of mankind ; and the original 
 sources are objects of curiosity rather than of use. This may be said 
 of nearly all the literature of science. But the case is different in 
 regard to those writings, the excellence of which consists in the beauty 
 of their composition. The loss of these we must regret, like that of 
 fine paintings and sculptures, the form and colour of which are essen- 
 tial to their character. The truths which Newton discovered would 
 remain with us, if his "Principia" and other treatises had sunk in 
 that fatal river of Time, which, Lord Bacon tells us, drowns what is 
 weighty and precious, and floats down only what is light and worth- 
 less. But if the actual Odyssey, and Hamlet, and Paradise Lost, 
 were gone, no one could tell another what they were. The words 
 themselves in their collocation are as essential as the thoughts ; the 
 form is no less indispensable than the substance. But such works 
 form but a small proportion of great libraries. . And of that small 
 proportion, comparatively little can be enjoyed by even industrious 
 students, distracted as they must be by the ever increasing literature 
 of the times they live in. Nor is it needful to think only of this 
 prolific age, with its journalism ever presenting new and stronger 
 claims on attention. More than two centuries ago literature seemed 
 redundant. 
 
 In 1632 (says Mr. Masson, in his life of Milton) just as now, people complained 
 of a plethora of books. " Good God," says Wither, in his Scholar's Purgatory, " how 
 many dung-boats full of fruitless volumes do they yearly foist upon his Majesty's 
 subjects ; how many hundred reams of foolish, profane, and senseless ballads do 
 they quarterly disperse abroad." (Vol. i. p. 150.) 
 
 And Sir Thomas Browne expresses a like feeling : 
 
 I have heard (he says) some with deep sighs lament the lost lines of Cicero ; 
 others with as many groans deplore the combustion of the library of Alexandria ; 
 for my own part I think there be too many in the world, and could with patience 
 behold the urn and ashes of the Vatican, could I, with a few others, recover the 
 perished leaves of Solomon. * * * * 'Tis not a melancholy utinam of my own, 
 but the desires of better heads, that there were a general synod ; not to unite the 
 incompatible differences of religion, but for the benefit of learning, to reduce it, as 
 it lay at first, in a few and solid Authors; and to condemn to the fire those swarms of 
 rhapsodies begotten only to distract and abuse the weaker judgments of scholars, 
 and to maintain the trade and mystery of Typographers. (Eelig. Med. sec. 24.) 
 
 It is curious to notice the -different aspects under which the waste 
 of literature appears to the same person at different times. I have
 
 THE ADVANCE OF CIVILISATION. 67 
 
 quoted Gibbon's lamentation over the first destruction of the library 
 of Alexandria by a Christian Bishop. With his usual partiality he 
 speaks more leniently of the second destruction by the Mahometans : 
 
 I sincerely (he says) regret the more valuable libraries which have been involved 
 in the ruin of the Eoman Empire ; but when I seriously compute the lapse of ages, 
 the waste of ignorance, and the calamities of war, our treasures' rather than our 
 losses are the objects of my surpz-ise. Many curious and interesting facts are buried 
 in oblivion ; the three great histories of Rome have been transmitted to our hands 
 in a mutilated state; and we are deprived of many pleasing compositions of the 
 lyric, iambic, and dramatic poetry of the Greeks. Yet we should gVatefully remember 
 that the mischances of time and accident have spared the classic works to which the 
 suffrage of antiquity had adjudged the first place of genius and glory ; the teachers 
 of ancient knowledge, who are still extant, had perused and compared the writings 
 of their predecessors ; nor can it fairly be presumed that any important truth, any 
 useful discovery in art or nature, has been snatched away from the curiosity of 
 modern ages. 
 
 As to the destruction of races of men, it may console us to bear in 
 mind, that if the individual man must not repine at changes which, 
 though they ruin him, add to the happiness of multitudes of his fellow 
 men, it cannot be our duty to mourn over the disappearance of races, 
 which have been superseded by others, of higher endowments and 
 larger capacities. The modes in which they have perished, or been 
 absorbed, or amalgamated, may have been painful to contemplate; 
 but those dreadful facts belong to the category of questions for which, 
 .as we have already hinted, there is at present no solution, there 
 being no rest for the perplexed, inquiring mind, but in the belief that 
 they belong to the working of a Divine plan of the universe that must 
 end in good, though in an unknown way. And even with our present 
 perceptions, and powers of understanding, if we survey the countries 
 where such changes of inhabitants have taken place, I cannot imagine 
 that anyone would desire that those changes should be reversed. The 
 !Mohawk and the Chippewa may be fine figures for the imagination ; 
 and stirring tales may be told of their strength of limb, and marvellous 
 quickness of eye and ear, and of their love of justice, and of their 
 possession of some few domestic virtues, and some shadowy notions of 
 religion ; but who 'would wish them to return to their hunting grounds 
 with their painted skins, and their tomahawks and scalping knives, or 
 even with their rude implements of the chase and their primitive 
 wigwams, and to occupy these regions where another race, however 
 intrusive in the first instance, has now spread fields of waving corn,
 
 68 WASTE. 
 
 and scattered the land over with smiling homesteads, and built great 
 cities with churches and colleges and halls of state, and introduced the 
 ennobling sciences and refining arts of the highest civilization achieved 
 by man ? No. Alas ! for the poor Aborigines ! Alas ! for their 
 struggle for existence, their pangs, their heart-breakings, their many 
 miseries! They must go; "some natural tears we shed, but wipe 
 them soon." They must fall under the general law. So vanished the 
 Canaanites before those wondrous Children who were to be the 
 learners and teachers of the best and purest religion mankind has 
 ever known. So vanished the Pelasgians before the Hellenes, who 
 were to be the authors of the profoundest philosophy, and the creators 
 of the highest poetry and the finest arts. So vanished the Etrurians 
 and Oscans, and Umbrians, before the race that was to teach law, and 
 political organization, and scientific warfare. So vanished the allo- 
 phyllian races of our northern Europe, before those branches of the 
 great Aryan stock, who brought the useful arts, the mechanical inven- 
 tions, the comforts of life, and, in the fulness of time, and under the 
 inspiration of Christianity, the mitigations of suffering, the sympathy 
 for the afflicted, the pity for the poor, and the sorrow for the sinful, 
 embodied in the hospitals and asylums and reformatory institutions of 
 our modern life. 
 
 And with such reflections in our minds we cannot mourn over the 
 waste of the old cities. They are gone. Be it so. Would you build 
 up Thebes again ? and again see the worship of the cat, and the cow, 
 and the ibis, even allowing that such superstitious practices were sym- 
 bolical of esoteric doctrines highly abstract and spiritual ? Would you 
 raise up ancient Rome, and recall her Romans, with their cruel, pitiless 
 conquests, their insulting triumphs, their butcherly and debasing 
 sports ? One would rather have even modern Rome with her spies, 
 and her dungeons ; for the misery she inflicts by her bigotry and 
 tyranny, is at least on a smaller scale. 
 
 But Athens could we recover Athens from the wreck, would it not 
 be a temptation to wish the order of changes rolled back to what she 
 was, when Pericles ruled the destinies of grander intellects, finer fancies, 
 more cunning hands, more delicate senses, more eloquent tongues than 
 the world has known before or since. Had we the architects and 
 sculptors, would we not rebuild her Parthenon and Erectheum, repair 
 <and sfet up again her Theseus and Hissus, and all " those forms that 
 mock the eternal dead in marble immortality," and bid her sages once
 
 WHAT GREECE LACKED. 69 
 
 more "walk the olive grove of Academe," and recall the silent voices 
 of her orators and poets ? No ; it is Letter as it is. Fancy must not 
 be allowed to dazzle the eyes of our judgment with the picture of that 
 
 city; 
 
 " A city such as vision 
 
 Builds from the purple crags and silver towers 
 Of battlemented cloud, as in derision 
 Of kingliest masonry." 
 
 We must not forget what was wanting to her citizens, and which 
 we now possess, with our riper civilization, our advanced sciences, our 
 mighty arts, our purer morals, our holier religion. One thought alone 
 is enough to make us acquiesce even in the ruin of ancient Athens. 
 While knowledge and wisdom were embodied in Pallas Athene, and 
 much that was charming was represented by Aphrodite, yet those 
 higher sentiments and associations which arise in our minds with the 
 name of woman, were not in the minds of the Greeks. Centuries upon 
 centuries of confusion, and misery, and darkness, had to pass over 
 "poor humanity's afflicted will," before that beautiful phase of our 
 modern life was evolved, which represents the ideas contained in 
 chivalry, and the acknowledgment by man of that softening, elevating, 
 and refining process, which he owes to the purer soul, and the more 
 loving heart of woman. This the Greeks had not ; so let them go, and 
 their peerless city with them. 
 
 If we could, we would not have them again ; nor can we join with 
 Schiller in wishing to revive their beautiful mythology. Bather would 
 we apostrophise their gods in the language of one of our own poets : 
 
 " Very pale ye seem to rise 
 Ghosts of Grecian deities ! 
 
 ***** 
 Gods bereaved, gods belated, 
 
 With your purples rent asunder ! 
 Gods discrowned and desecrated, 
 
 Disinherited of thunder ! 
 
 * 
 
 Get to dust, as common mortals, 
 
 By a common doom and track ! 
 Let no Schiller from the portals 
 Of that Hades call you back, 
 Or instruct us to weep all 
 At your antique funeral. 
 
 Pan, Pan is dead ! "
 
 70 WASTE. 
 
 Were it merely to indulge our curiosity, one would like to reani- 
 mate the dwellers in such cities as those of old Etruria, about whom 
 we know so little. But they are gone ; they have had their day and 
 their place. As to all that is gone from the world, there must have 
 been a reason for its departure as well as for its coming. Death is in 
 the scheme of the universe no less than life. So we must be content 
 to say with solemn reverence, 
 
 " Let the dead past bury its dead." 
 
 Could we from some far-off extra-mundane station look at events 
 which near at hand seem so disastrous, all the destruction and havoc 
 and desolation in the world, they would, probably, under so different 
 an angle of vision, assume an entirely different aspect. The whole 
 system, of things being one of unceasing change and flux, such terms 
 as death, and waste, and wreck, and ruin, would lose their significance ; 
 they would melt into ideas of unfolding, disintegration, repulsion, and 
 separation ; links in that great chain which is also made up of works 
 of development, attraction, composition, and formation, which are for 
 ever going on, since motion is the ultimate law of the universe. The- 
 mutations in the solid fabric of the earth, whether gradual or abrupt, 
 at which our imagination is so much amazed and almost frightened, 
 would look like undulations, heavings, and subsidences, dissolving 
 views of a sublime order of changes ; the replacement of old cities by 
 new would appear as little more than kaleidoscopic recombinations ; 
 and the busy, striving, toiling, battling tribes of men, falling away 
 here and re-appearing there, would harmonize with the varying scenes 
 of the vegetable world, the uprooting of forests, the springing of 
 flowers, and herbs, and crops, and plantations, where once were desert 
 plains or monotonous prairies, and the rising of lovely islands from 
 the bosom of the barren sea. 
 
 And all would be seen as order, growth, development, in the midst 
 of disruption, disintegration, and decay. Under our limited powers 
 of observation, the shifting atoms of organic forms are so insensibly 
 replaced by like atoms, in like combinations, that perfect similarity is 
 mistaken for identity. The rosy cheek of youth, and the brilliant 
 eye of beauty, are undergoing perpetual dissolution and recomposition 
 in the midst of their health and loveliness. With vision micro- 
 scopically sharpened, we should at every moment discern, in the 
 marvellous processes of cellular life, destruction, decay, and separation,.
 
 THE UNIVERSAL PLAN. 71 
 
 alternating with repair, and growth, and re-union. And so the great 
 globe itself, which to our mortal survey seems covered and confused 
 with waste, and wreck, and ravage, may to the mental eye, removed 
 far off by imagination, or by philosophic abstraction, present only the 
 varying phases of renovation and reproduction, which are ever pre- 
 vailing over inevitable revolutions and destructions. 
 
 All the teachings of experience, and all the divinations of analogy, 
 lead us to believe that those chances and changes and metamorphoses 
 will ever eventuate, sooner or later, in something better and nobler ; 
 and that the new earth and the new Heavens which the highest and 
 purest minds have been inspired to look for, and to prefigure in solemn 
 vision, will infinitely surpass in beauty and glory all those which have 
 gone before them.
 
 TEN YEAES. 
 
 A LECTURE DELIVERED AT THE BRISTOL INSTITUTION, 
 JANUARY 14, 1861. 
 
 ^ EN years! It is after all a large portion of time. It is a seventh, 
 of the period allotted by the Hebrew Psalmist to the individuals 
 of our race, as a season worth possessing. It is a tenth of that 
 segment of time which is the symbol of long duration, one of 
 the great marks on the dial-plate of the world's horologe a division 
 which multiplied by a very few figures carries us into far-off ages, past 
 seons, scecula saculorum. It is a tenth of that of which there have not 
 been thirty since the heroic, pre-historic age of Greece ; not sixty, 
 according to the orthodox chronology of Archbishop Usher, since the 
 creation of Adam. To us, in our comparatively uneventful tenour of 
 individual biography, a decade may glide stealthily away, and in 
 memory be curdled into much less than an hour. But a glance at the 
 great records of the world will suffice to raise it into something of 
 solemn, nay, fearful significance. What heavings and convulsions of 
 the whole framework of society what polities abolished and refounded 
 what desolations of war what revivals of peace what thrones set 
 up and shaken down what dynasties dead, buried, and resuscitated 
 what glorious martyrdoms what tragedies of heroes what delirium 
 of kings what sorrows and sufferings of peoples what sad disastrous 
 eclipse of freedom and intellectual life what heavenly radiances, as 
 new hopes and restitutions have seemed to open on the destinies of 
 man ! How in one ten years has " a great aeon set in blood," and in 
 another uprisen like a laughing Aurora !
 
 EGYPT AXD HELLAS. 73 
 
 There was a people of ancient times, the oldest of which we have 
 authentic traces. They looked far into futurity, and they built temples 
 and piled up monuments, and carved and coloured them as if their 
 works should abide for ever. And there were no earthquakes to 
 swallow them, no lava and ashes to overwhelm them, no hailstones to 
 furrow them, no dews to eat into them, no fogs to blister them. And 
 through how many centuries, which some think almost countless, those 
 pyramids and sphinxes and obelisks stood unscathed ! But there did 
 come a change ; and in less than ten years their beauty was marred 
 and their grandeur shattered, or hardly to be traced except in the 
 greatness of their ruin, in the dimensions of fragments, and in the 
 disfigurement of masses which had only escaped entire downfall and 
 demolition, because they were more like natural rocks than the carven 
 stones of human handiwork. And this destruction and desolation was 
 left by the simoom-like sweep of mad barbarians. On those plains, 
 which have since resounded with the clash of the Macedonian phalanx, 
 with the alalagmos of the Roman legions, with the rush of Moslem 
 cavalry, with the roar of French artillery, and with the steady tramp 
 of British infantry, the old monarchs of the lines of Amunoph, 
 Thothmes, and Eameses, might still look down from their colossal 
 statues. With their solemn, sedate, and kingly eyes (such as are yet 
 visible on the walls of their sepulchres), they might still be looking 
 down on the scenes of their ancient glory, but for the havoc and wreck 
 and ravage of those ten years which were given to the license of the 
 drunken insensate Cambyses. 
 
 There was another ancient people whose existence exerted far more 
 important influence on the fortunes of the human race than did that of 
 the Egyptians. In the ideas which they originated ; in the systems of 
 thought and reasoning which they organized ; in the recitals which 
 they have left of what they had themselves observed, or of what had 
 been told or handed down to them by others ; in their imaginings of 
 what had been done in the world before tradition had spoken, or 
 history had written ; in their singular perception of beauty, and in 
 their power of producing it in forms which remain to this day, and 
 make moderns divided in judgment as to whether what those sculptors 
 and architects saw was more harmonious in proportion and more lovely 
 in form than can be seen now, or whether their wonderful works 
 sprang from their pure creative power, their gift both of idealising 
 and of realising their ideals ; in their mastery of language ; in their
 
 74 TEN YEARS. 
 
 combination of what satisfies and charms the ear by rhythmical periods 
 and metrical cadences, with clear and vivid representations of th& 
 forms and colours of the outward world, of the emotions and affections 
 and sentiments of the inner life, and of action and of passion among 
 men ; in their renderings, too, of things done and characters evolved 
 in the world of imagination deeds and agents and events that never 
 were but which might have been, for the creations were all true to the 
 laws of thought, and the laws of the world as then understood ; in a 
 word, this people in their philosophy and literature and art, in their 
 poems and histories and orations, in their theogonies and mythologies, 
 their logic and rhetoric and mathematics, their temples and friezes and 
 statues, their Hiad and Odyssey, their Prometheus and Antigone, their 
 Phsedo and Philippica, their Square of the Hypothenuse, their Theseus 
 and Aphrodite, in all these and innumerable other particulars they 
 have informed and educated, and they will continue to inform and 
 educate mankind by theory and by example to remotest times. They 
 have left types and models never to be surpassed, some never to be 
 equalled ; and canons of thought and rules of art that will never grow 
 old and obsolete. But there were ten years when all these priceless 
 legacies to mankind were in peril, or rather when the germs of what 
 was afterwards to be developed into so much glory and beauty might 
 have been utterly blighted. "What would the world have been now, 
 if before the Greek literature and philosophy and aesthetics had arisen, 
 if Attica had become a satrapy of Persia, if the grand Hellenic mind 
 had been swamped by the Asiatic, if enlightened republics freely speak- 
 ing, freely acting, had been overwhelmed by barbarian despotism. 
 Grant what you will to the splendour of oriental fancy, to the magni- 
 ficence of oriental architecture ; allow what you choose to the acuteness 
 of oriental intellect, to the subtlety of oriental metaphysics; but 
 imagine exchanging the clear-cut compact works of Greek thought for 
 any thing that we have received from the arts and letters of the East! 
 Imagine the exchange of Sophocles and Pindar for Hafiz and Sadi, 
 Ethics of Aristotle for mystical Zenda Vestas, gods of the Parthenon 
 for bulls of Nineveh ! Who can tell whether this, and worse than 
 this, might not have happened but for the glorious ten years which 
 began with Marathon and ended with Salamis. 
 
 On that struggle and what it preserved for us we can look back 
 with gratitude on our own account, and for the sake of the intellectual 
 interests of the whole civilized world. But after ten centuries had
 
 ISLAM. 7^> 
 
 passed there was another ten years, more astonishing in its events, 
 more influential at the time on great masses of mankind, and the 
 results of which astound us even to this day. Let us think for a 
 moment of the career of that extraordinary man who having had to- 
 fly for life from a paltry tribe, with a handful of devoted associates, 
 devoted only from their belief in his authority from the Unseen Powers, 
 was enabled by means of that prophetic ardour which comes to a man 
 from his conviction that he has attained to some truth which is instar 
 omnium, which includes all truths and all the duties which bind him 
 and his fellow men in respect to this world and the world beyond, 
 was, I say, by means of that ardour and the practical tact and wisdom 
 so often found to be co-existent with enthusiasm, and with no other 
 help than the zeal which he had imparted to his followers and disciples, 
 was enabled after ten years, comprising I know not what fasts and 
 fightings, what terrible crises of impending defeat or death, so to 
 beat down all his enemies, and to inspire such trust in his supernatural 
 mission and invincible fortunes, that after only ten years from his 
 memorable flight to the end of his victorious career he had raised 
 himself to the sovereignty of a mighty people. This people, or fede- 
 ration of tribes, were so heated by the united flames of his spiritual 
 propagandism and his worldly ambition, that after one century only 
 that singular Hegira became the date of a new order of things, not 
 only to the countless tribes that swarmed in Arabia, but to all the tawny 
 or darker-coloured races that filled the southern shores of the Mediter- 
 ranean to the far west,' or northwards to the sallow nomades of the 
 Steppes of Tartary, and eastwards even to the sable children of Delhi. 
 In that period how many cities of old renown had been compelled to 
 open their gates to the representatives of the fugitive from Mecca ! 
 The mind is almost overwhelmed by the multitudinous associations 
 which such names evoke. The banner of the Moslem waved above 
 the palaces of Susa and the towers of Damascus ; it profaned the walls 
 of Jerusalem ; it insulted the peristyles of Alexandria and the obelisks 
 of Memphis; it flouted the broken colonnades of Baalbec and the 
 venerable ruins of Carthage; and it triumphed over the pillars of 
 Hercules. At what famous rivers did not "their foaming cavalry" 
 slake their thirst ? The world-old Euphrates and Tigris, the mysterious 
 Oxus, the territorial Indus, the sacred Nile, the peerless Gruadalquiver. 
 What seas had not been stared at by the wild eyes of those wanderers 
 from sandy deserts ? Tkeir tents had fringed the shores not only of
 
 76 TEN YEAES. 
 
 the Ked Sea and the Persian Gulf, but also of the Caspian, the Euxine, 
 the Mediterranean and the Atlantic. And this century of conquest 
 had never been, but for that marvellous decade from the Hegira to the 
 death of Mohammed ! 
 
 Our human craving for final causes is somewhat satisfied when we 
 trace the effects of the Grecian decade on the intellectual life of Europe 
 down to our own times. But what part in the tuition of the human 
 race has been fulfilled by the splendid successes of the Moslem fanatics ? 
 May their one dogmatic formula atone by its monotheistic purity for 
 the ferocity, the bigotry, the sensuality, the cruel rapacity of the 
 Mussulman ! Or are we to admit that in the maxims and precepts of 
 the Koran there lies hid some mysterious organising and conservative 
 power, specially fitted for binding and holding together those vast 
 Asiatic polities ? We are perplexed as we survey a chart of the religions 
 of the world and observe that the professors of Islam number no less 
 than 124 millions. We must confess with humility how very feebly we 
 can apprehend the counsels of Providence in the development of other 
 races than our own European branch of the great Aryan stock. 
 
 Let us turn from the contemplation of this strange phase of history, 
 so barren and depressing to the mental vision. Let us pass over 
 another thousand years, from the seventh to the seventeenth century, 
 and we alight on a ten years, the value of which to human happiness 
 and liberty cannot be surpassed by any period of like extent in the 
 history of our race (always excepting those three years in Palestine, 
 too solemn to be dwelt on here, but the very thought of which must 
 ever send a thrill through all hearts in Christendom). You will have 
 anticipated me, and will know that I am alluding to the space between 
 1640 and 1650. It is not for me to hold up to reprobation the stub- 
 bornness of the one party or to palliate the excesses of the other ; 
 but I may remark in passing that considering the magnitude of the 
 stake, the heat of the passions called forth, the apparent sanction of 
 high moral and religious principles of action on either side, it will 
 ever be one of the worthiest of our national boasts that in the terrible 
 conflicts of that time, notwithstanding what may now seem to have 
 been needless severities and retributions, the humanities of strife were 
 observed to a degree beyond what would be found in any struggle of 
 equal duration and intensity in the history of any other nation. It 
 was a fearful but a glorious period. There was a fair and open field, 
 and the time had come when it had to be proved whether the popular
 
 THE WARS OF THE COJIMONWEALTH. 77 
 
 mind and will had really passed through, its stages of infancy and 
 childhood, had outgrown the necessity for the tutelary care of Divine 
 Prerogative of Kings, Divine Prerogative of Priests, and was strong 
 and sturdy enough to take care of itself, or rather to partake of the 
 counsels of legislators, and of the transactions of executive govern- 
 ments. It was not to be expected that the hereditary privileges, the 
 aristocratic traditions, the ecclesiastic prescriptions of centuries, should 
 succumb without a struggle. Great were the virtues put to the trial 
 in that collision ; faith in God, faithfulness to a King devotion to 
 the Highest, devotedness to His Vicegerent sacred ardour for liberty, 
 sacred ardour for loyalty and sacrifice of life and fortune and kindred 
 for both. We mourn for the inevitable losses ; chivalrous Falklands, 
 intrepid Hampdens, graceful helpless Charleses but it was an awful 
 issue that was fought, and the men who conquered were stirred by the 
 sacred strains of the warrior-bards of Judah, and they were ruled by 
 that natural voice of command with which Heaven had endowed the 
 storm-compelling Oliver. The liberties of thought and speech, of 
 conscience and action, won for the people of England in those memo- 
 rable ten years, were won for remote ages and peoples. They travel 
 round the world with the Anglo-Saxon tongue. Whatever excesses or 
 effervescences they may have run into in their first burst, with whatever 
 ultra-republican theories they may have been mixed and confounded, 
 the principles of constitutional freedom pleaded in the Petition of 
 Eight, asserted in the Grand Remonstrance, battled for at Marston, 
 and won at Naseby, we are daily and hourly enjoying ; and they are 
 found to work in perfect harmony with that deep-rooted sentiment of 
 our nation, 
 
 " Our loyal passion for our temperate Kings." 
 
 God grant that like principles may so work in the revived nation- 
 alities on the northern shores of the Mediterranean ! 
 
 But this thought of " ten years " has led me into themes almost as 
 worn as the ten years' war in Troy. Did I not fear to weary you with 
 iteration of the period I would ask you to look for memorable decades 
 in the lives of Great Men. In the lives of long-aged men how often 
 has it happened that their principal achievements, those by which they 
 have gained their places among the Immortals, were comprehended 
 within the same narrow space. But this observation applies chiefly to 
 those reputations the bearers of which have distinguished themselves
 
 78 TEN YEAES. 
 
 in important national crises. Great wars, great political perturbations, 
 happily do not often extend through the whole active part of even an 
 average lifetime. It is when high capabilities of action concur with 
 extraordinary emergencies that great fames arise suddenly ; the hour 
 and the man the knot to be cut and the sword sharp enough to cut 
 it must come together. If it be true that " the world knows nothing 
 of its greatest men," it is because they have not been fortunate enough 
 to light upon a fitting stage for the display of their powers. Of such 
 men the affairs have not had that tide, " which taken at the turn " 
 would have led to fortune. Had there been no War of the Succession, 
 the English nation would have lost that splendid wreath, the several 
 leaves of which are inscribed with the names of Blenheim, Eamillies, 
 Oudenarde, and Malplaquet. Instead of Marlborough, a type of the 
 highest military glory the world has seen, we might have scarcely 
 remembered the name of Churchill among the political intriguers of 
 the reigns of James and Anne, or remembered it as slurred .with 
 imputations of treachery to an indulgent master, and of an avarice 
 that could not withstand the corruption of even the bitterest enemy of 
 his country. But those famous victories, and many others which 
 ennobled the career of that great commander, were all comprised 
 within less than ten years, nay, in half the time. Blenheim was fought 
 in 1704 and Malplaquet in 1709. 
 
 Another great pride of our nation, and a hero of more single- 
 oninded and more chivalrous stamp, Nelson, was toiling and bleeding 
 for his country a much longer time than the other, but those outbursts 
 of valour and genius which gave him his deathless renown, from the 
 time when off St. Vincent he encountered the Santissima Trinidad till 
 that glorious day when he utterly broke the naval powers of France 
 and Spain off Trafalgar, all flash on the page of history in so quick 
 succession as to make almost a continuous light. The space occupied 
 falls considerably short of ten years. The first of those achievements 
 Avas in 1797 ; and the greatest naval hero of English historj-, full of 
 such heroes, ended his fame and his life in 1805, two years short of 
 a decade. 
 
 And it is curious to note that within even less than this period, that 
 wonderful series of successes was included, by which another of our 
 countrymen gained an imperishable name. Sir Arthur Wellesley 
 landed in Portugal in 1808. The Duke of Wellington fought the 
 -battle of Waterloo in 1815. Honoured as he is in our memory for
 
 DECADES IN THE LIVES OF GREAT MEN. 79 
 
 Ms truthfulness, his simplicity, justice, solid sense, practic wisdom, 
 and temperateness of judgment, tried and proved in so many crises in 
 the civil affairs of his country, his name would have fallen into a 
 confused throng of political chiefs of the second rank, and far below 
 the Chathams and Pitts, and Foxes and Cannings, or would have been 
 only coupled with the brilliant charge at Assaye, but for the oppor- 
 tunities which he found and used with so consummate a military 
 genius in those memorable seven years. 
 
 Many other examples might be discovered if we sought them of 
 the high reputations attained to in a brief period, because the great 
 deeds which procured them were engendered of the public events with 
 which their authors had been mingled. It is' different if we survey the 
 world of thought. High renown in philosophy and literature is not 
 often obtained by the labours and productions of a single decade of 
 years. It is true that one or two striking exceptions start up in 
 apparent contradiction to this remark. The best of Lord Byron's 
 poems were given to the world between that memorable morning 
 when, as he said, " he awoke and found himself famous," and the ten 
 years that followed. The star of Shelley's genius, though fixed for 
 ever in the heaven of song, described a smaller arc above the horizon 
 of human life, and that of Keats a still smaller. But of each of these 
 it might be said that the career was over hasty. Too much was 
 crowded into the time. Prematurity and immaturity belong more or 
 less to all, being incident to the over- growth of sickly constitutions. 
 Firmer mental health, more patient enduring toil, longer and more 
 thoughtful observation and experience of life, might have enabled each 
 of these great geniuses to produce works of more solid and compact 
 fabric than any they have left behind them. Our greatest poets, 
 Chaucer, Shakspeare, Spenser and Milton, worked over long periods. 
 Though the Paradise Lost was composed in a few years, yet more than 
 twenty years before that time its author had published Comus and 
 Lycidas, and in the intermediate time he had, as he tells us, overpliecl 
 his eyes 
 
 "In liberty's defence, his noble task, 
 Of which all Europe rang from side to side."' 
 
 In science and philosophy a very large majority of the great names 
 would be found to belong to men who had been toiling through two 
 or three decades. How very few are to be found so fortunate as Sir 
 Humphrey Davy, whose grandest discoveries ranged over the first ten
 
 80 TEN YEAES. 
 
 years of the present century. And for the most part revelations 
 made to man by outward nature come only after long, humble, and 
 patient devotion, determined and importunate interrogation, unwearied 
 wrestlings for the blessing of knowledge, a blessing that like all of the 
 intellectual and spiritual order does not cease with the first recipient, 
 but is handed on to long ages of inheritors. 
 
 If we turn from these wanderings to review the progress of Science 
 during the last ten years, I am not aware that our view can be arrested 
 by any single discovery which can match those which illustrated the 
 preceding decades of the century. I do not know of anything that 
 could rival the discovery of the alkaline metallic bases of Davy ; or 
 the fossil geology of Cuvier ;* or the Analysis of the Nervous System 
 by Charles Bell ; or the identification of Magnetism with Electricity 
 by Oersted ; or the divination by Adams and Le Verrier, that there 
 must be a planet in a particular situation, which was afterwards 
 actually found ; or the recognition by certain German chemists of 
 nitrogenous compounds in the vegetable kingdom analogous to those in 
 the animal ; or the transcendental Anatomy of Oken, and Serres, and 
 St. Hilaire ; or the Silurian researches of Sedgwick and Murchison ; or 
 the Glacier discoveries of Forbes; or the Volcanic investigations of 
 Daubeny ; or such practical inventions as the Locomotive of Stephenson; 
 the Electric Telegraph of Wheatstone ; the Photography of Talbot and 
 Daguerre; and the Penny Postage of Eowland Hill. Still, though 
 there may have been no single star of the first magnitude to attract 
 our vision in the discoveries of this last decade, there has been an 
 increasing diffusion of light. Admitted principles have received further 
 extension. The inventions of former decades have produced results in 
 this, far exceeding what could have been anticipated at their birth. 
 For example, I presume it was not expected when the first message 
 ran along the wires between London and Blackwall, that before many 
 years should have passed, the old and the new world would through a 
 like medium exchange greetings ; and (so rapid is the succession of' 
 modern events) not much more than three centuries from the time when 
 the one hemisphere became acquainted with its other half. 
 
 * The " Ossemens Fossiles" of Cuvier was actually published just Lefore the 
 beginning of this century (1708), but the celebrity of the work came later.
 
 PKOGRESS OF SCIENTIFIC DISCOVERY. 81 
 
 So far as it is possible for one like myself to catch glimpses of the 
 progress of science, it seems that the enormous collection of observations 
 generated almost every day by those parent discoveries and inventions 
 to which I have adverted, must, by the illustrative importance of some 
 of them, and by the practical value of others in their applicability to 
 the various wants and uses of mankind, must constitute a family -well 
 worthy of their wonderful progenitors. The organic chemistry and 
 the agricultural improvements of these days prove that Berzelius and 
 Mulder and Liebig did not discover in vain. Stephenson surveying 
 Bradshaw's Railway Map of Europe would have stronger evidence 
 than any previous inventor had ever had presented to him, that his 
 own and the next generation had been willing to accept and to turn to 
 good account the boon which he had bestowed upon mankind. Pro- 
 fessor Wheatstone cannot take up a newspaper, some column of which 
 does not tell him how the extension of his discovery has marched with 
 a velocity, somewhat comparable to that of the agent which has brought 
 us tidings of the victories of armies almost before the cannon which 
 won them had ceased to boom. And if Sir Rowland Hill is not able 
 to witness the extent of his beneficent invention, it is only because he 
 is not ubiquitous, and cannot enter the homes and see the daily lives 
 of millions on the face of the globe, homes and lives cheered, 
 sustained, and comforted by that communication with friends and 
 kindred, which meets one of the strongest yearnings of the human 
 heart. 
 
 But more interesting than this energetic adoption of suggestions 
 for multiplying useful arts and inventions, more interesting to the mind 
 of the philosopher, have been the reasonings of those lofty intellects 
 which have endeavoured to introduce larger generalizations of facts, 
 to simplify the Irsvs by which the phenomenal world is governed. 
 What could be more satisfying to our desire for knowledge of the 
 degrees of relationship between phenomena, or of their causative 
 connection, than Mr. Grove's admirable treatise on the Co .'relations of 
 Force, showing how heat, and light, and electricity, and galvanism, 
 and magnetism, and chemical attraction, and mechanical motion, are 
 all reciprocally convertible ; or those profound speculations of Faraday 
 on the Conservation of Force, founded on the belief that motion is 
 never lost, but that when apparently lost it has only passed into some 
 other form. As a consequence of these discoveries it seems to my own 
 humble apprehension probable that we may be not very far removed 
 
 G
 
 82 TEX 
 
 from some great generalization, which will include not only all these 
 forces with their reciprocal transmutations, but also the attraction of 
 gravity. At all events we may hope to arrive at some more satisfactory 
 notion than what has hitherto been conceived of motion and force, 
 which are little better than provisional terms. Force cannot be severed 
 from matter, and matter is only known through force ; and forces are 
 only modes of motion in matter. When we try to separate matter and 
 motion we fail, and only come upon fresh proofs that they are insepar- 
 able. We can give no account of matter other than a recital of its 
 qualities, which when analysed involve the idea of motion ; and we 
 cannot conceive motion without matter as the subject of it. There is 
 no rest. All is change, an everlasting shifting of position, and variation 
 of arrangement, whether in the polarising atoms of the most solid 
 substance, or in that mighty revolution of sidereal systems which 
 astronomers can infer but which no imagination can depict or in the 
 friction and undulation of that impalpable, insensible ether, which, 
 like the conceptions of the metaphysician, sold mentis acie distinguitur, 
 is discerned only by the mental vision. This is one of the many points 
 in which physics and metaphysics touch each other, in which matter 
 melts away into thought almost into " such stuff as dreams are made 
 of." All things are as they are thought of or experienced ; " nothing 
 is, but all things seem ;" and the objective is absorbed into the 
 subjective. 
 
 All forces are modes of motion ; but motion itself is a mode of 
 thought. It is twin-born with time, and so united that the one idea 
 cannot exist without the other. It is no less inextricable from time or 
 successive duration, than rest is from space. Contemplate space with- 
 out time, and everything is fixed. Not a star can move no living 
 thing can breathe indeed there is no life. Motion, then, is a neces- 
 sary mode of thought in our consideration of matter as we know it. 
 except in that instant which we call " now" and which is no sooner 
 before the mind than it is gone. The present participle of the active 
 verb is in strict logic a solecism. It is the confusion of two ideas. 
 We say in common language " the boat is moving." This though a 
 convenient form of speech, sufficiently intelligible for purposes of 
 ordinary communication, is somewhat of a mistake. The boat is, i.e., 
 it is present to the eye and the mind as an object in space. But to say 
 it is moving is to declare that it occupies at one moment two points in 
 space. But "it has moved and is about to move" is a correct ex-
 
 THE UNITY OF FOKCE. 83 
 
 pression ; for in this change of formula we have introduced the 
 element of time which was previously excluded ; and the expression 
 implies that the boat is not where it was, and that it was not where it 
 is, and that it will be where it is not. We denote the past and the 
 future as well as the present. 
 
 You remember the old sophism of Diodorus : "If matter moves 
 it is either in the place where it is, or in the place where it is not. 
 But it cannot move in the place where it is, and certainly not in the 
 place in which it is not ; consequently, it cannot move at all." The 
 fallacy consists in this, that time is excluded from the argument, 
 though it must be involved in any definition of motion. To change 
 place, involves succession, for it is to le where it was not. It cannot 
 move where it is, because is implies space without time, and of course 
 it cannot move where it is not ; but let time, that is, the experience of 
 duration come in, and motion may be predicated. 
 
 Change, motion, flux, succession, are essential facts of the universe 
 as contemplated by man. But of the Divine mind, the ineffable 
 I AM, a great old writer has said, " He only u. All others have been 
 and shall be ; but in eternity there is no distinction of tenses : * * * 
 those continued instances of time which flow into a thousand years 
 make not to Him one moment ; what to us is to come, to His eternity 
 is present, His whole duration being but one permanent point, without 
 succession, parts, flux, or division."* 
 
 But to return from this digression. If motion be an essential 
 constituent of our idea of matter, and if the forces which either make 
 or actuate all the great phenomena of the world are modes of motion, 
 then the generalizations of our day which tend to show, if not their 
 identity, yet that they are mutually convertible, are approaches towards 
 that simplification of cause and unity of plan which has ever been the 
 highest aim of philosophy, not only in our own age, but also in those 
 far-off times when Parmenides discoursed on the mysterious One 
 'iv TO. Travra One is all, and all are one. 
 
 In modern speculations on the organic world there is the same 
 tendency of thought. The laws of organization have been reduced to 
 considerable simplicity in the discovery of homologous anatomical 
 elements, and of cellular growth as fundamental alike to the vegetable 
 and to the animal kingdoms. How far the hypothesis which recently 
 has attracted so much attention and has been supported with so much 
 
 * Religio Medici.
 
 84 TEN YEARS. 
 
 ingenuity, and which would reduce the multitudinous species, hitherto 
 held to be eternally diverse, into a few types from which through 
 countless ages there have been series of transmutations and evolutions, 
 eventuating in the present aspects of nature, and seeming endless 
 variety of animated forms ; to what extent that hypothesis will prove 
 to be a satisfactory clue for re-investigating and traversing the old 
 canons of specific distinctions, it remains for our great naturalists to 
 instruct us. But in the meantime some of the most eminent, for 
 examples Owen, and Agassiz, have condemned it ; while others of 
 equal authority in their departments, for examples Lyell, Hooker, and 
 Carpenter, have treated it with a degree of respect sufficient to warn 
 persons of less knowledge and experience, that Mr. Darwin's sug- 
 gestions are not to be at once thrown aside, because apparently 
 subversive of what has been hitherto considered to be most stable in 
 the philosophy of the animated world. 
 
 For the sake of investing with some faint appearance of complete- 
 ness in design, what must necessarily from our limits be so very- 
 incomplete and desultory in execution, we ought to notice, however 
 briefly, the progress of Literature during the last ten years. Perhaps 
 the most obvious fact is that during the period no new name has arisen, 
 which we can connect with new lines of thought, such for instance 
 as we refer to the Arnolds and Carlyles of former decades ; for as yet 
 we do not know how far the originality of Mr. Buckle will be sus- 
 tained. Nor has there arisen any one great writer remarkable for the 
 combination of thought, and knowledge, and eloquence, to the degree 
 that marked the Southeys, and Scotts, and Macaulays of earlier 
 periods. Indeed we have to number up our losses rather than our 
 gains. Almost within a year we have lost Hallam, one of the most 
 learned of historians, as he was the most rigorously accurate in state- 
 ment, and the most even-handed in the distribution of praise and 
 blame ; De Quincey, with his enormous stores of various knowledge, 
 his exquisite fineness of discrimination, and his marvellous power of 
 uttering impassioned rhythmic prose ; Macaulay, statesman, orator, 
 poet, and historian, who pronounced orations that satisfied the taste of 
 the most fastidious assembly in the world, composed lyrics by which 
 the heart of Sir Philip Sidney would have been " moved more than by 
 the sound of a trumpet," wrote unrivalled essays, and then relin- 
 quished all other avocations in order to devote himself to a history, 
 which has proved to be as full of facts and information as if it had
 
 GAINS AND LOSSES OF LITERATUKE IN TEN YEARS. 85 
 
 been the dryest of chronicles, as broad and careful in its inductions as 
 if it had been a philosophical treatise, and as artistic and fascinating 
 as if it had been a work of poetic fiction ; Mure, the erudite critic, 
 and eloquent historian of Grecian literature ; Napier, who added the 
 renown of a great writer to the many other glories of his illustrious 
 race ; and quite recently we have had to mourn for one whose removal, 
 while it is a privation to the literature of the world, is felt particularly 
 by the two allied countries, our own and Prussia, to which his name 
 almost equally belongs, the Baron Von Bunsen. Under a colossal 
 intellect, which was arrayed in learning of proportionate dimensions 
 and magnificence, he bore a heart that not only throbbed with the 
 tenderest human affections, but also beat with the warmest reverential 
 love to God. Of his many noble qualities, one of the most marked 
 was his ardour for truth, and his courage in asserting and practising 
 the liberty of thought, and what our fathers called " the liberty of 
 prophesying." If the light which he held up chanced to dazzle or 
 scare the eyes that had not been trained to look at it, he did not feel 
 called upon t6 hide what he believed to be " light from heaven," a 
 light which had guided his daily life, and which shone upon his dying 
 hours. Perhaps the eyesight of coming ages will be less sensitive ; 
 but certainly it would appear that new light has always been too 
 strong for the times in which it first appeared, even from the days of 
 St. Paul and of Luther down to our own era. 
 
 But while reckoning up our bereavements, let us not be ungrateful 
 in our regrets. We have still with us the authors of two noble 
 histories, worthy of our literature, rich as it is in this department, 
 Grote's History of Greece, and Milman's Latin Christianity. We 
 have also much in prospect, as well as in possession, from the learned 
 Merivale, the brilliant Froude, the graphic Stanley, the fervid Kingsley, 
 and the many-sided genius of Gladstone. And there are great masters 
 and teachers of reasoning still in full vigour, although their course 
 began long before the period which we have been reviewing, con- 
 spicuous among whom are Mr. Mill and Dr. Whewell. And there are 
 eminent writers on pure psychology, particularly Mr. Morell, Professor 
 Ferriar, Professor Mansel, and Mr. Bain ; also on psychology in 
 relation to physiology, among the most distinguished of whom we may 
 name Dr. Carpenter, Sir Henry Holland, Dr. Laycock, and Sir 
 Benjamin Brodie. Writers of great celebrity have appeared during 
 the decade in various departments of theological literature, some
 
 86 TEN YEAKS. 
 
 distinguished by profound thought, others by extensive erudition,, 
 others by their eloquence, others by their power of popular exposition, 
 and others, in addition to their learning and acumen, by determination 
 in maintaining old, or bravery in proclaiming new forms of truth ; 
 need we instance the names of the Rev. F. Maurice, Professor Jowett, 
 Professor Mansel, Dr. Guthrie, Dr. Gumming, the Deans of Canter- 
 bury, Bristol, and Chichester, and the Bishops of Oxford and St. 
 David's ? Their speculations and researches cannot be brought, even 
 if I had the time or qualifications, which I have not, for introducing 
 them, into the serene and somewhat secular atmosphere of our Institu- 
 tion ; for they are either of too solemn a nature, or they have been too 
 much mingled with controversies which have agitated and will continue 
 to agitate the world, so long as human minds are divisible into the two 
 great classes of Conservatives and Eeformatives. 
 
 What may have been produced of late in the Belles Lettres I 
 cannot venture to recount, not having been often allowed to set foot in 
 that flowery empire. But this I think I know, that the beginning and 
 the close of our decade were marked by gifts from the Laureate which 
 would adorn the brightest age in the literary history of any nation, 
 whether ancient or modern. Surely no elegiac poems in any tongue 
 can vie in depth of thought, in compass of imagination, in pathos of 
 sentiment, and in subtle beauty of music, with " In Memoriam ;" and 
 if we wish to find any blank verse poem that will bear comparison 
 with the " Idylls of the King," it is necessary to travel far back in our 
 literature till we arrive at the latter third of the seventeenth century. 
 And then, indeed, within hearing of the seraph voice of Milton we 
 are compelled to believe that there never yet have sounded, and probably 
 never will sound again to mortal ears, words of like lofty import, set 
 to like full and solemn harmonies. 
 
 But perhaps the most striking fact in the literary history of the last 
 ten years has been the enormous extension, and corresponding impor- 
 tance and influence of Periodical Literature. Almost beyond computation 
 have grown our quarterlies, monthlies, weeklies, and dailies. "What 
 does this fact portend? What does it indicate for the interest of 
 letters, for the interest of the profession of letters, and for the general 
 interests of mankind? Whatever answer may be given to these 
 questions, it is obvious that there must be an immense increase of 
 readers; readers too eager to wait for heavy books, or too poor to 
 buy them, or too weak to handle them, or toojbusy to study them.
 
 JOURNALISTIC LITERATURE. 
 
 Publishers, we have heard, have official readers attached to their 
 establishments. Periodical authors often bear a like relation to the 
 public. They read for the idle, for the busy, for the intelligent, and 
 for the stupid. And even more than this, in a large number of 
 instances they think for the public. Happy then is it for us that they 
 number among them Borne of the finest intellects of the time, or 
 rather it is because they are such that we rely so much upon them. 
 Their works are to our minds what the herbivora are to our bodies. 
 These range many a rich and spacious pasture, and compound the 
 vegetable principles into others, which fixed in their frames become 
 our support and nourishment, and at much less cost to our digestive 
 time and labour, than if we ourselves were obliged to distil the herbs, 
 " and crop the flowery food." Whether the faculties of readers are 
 strengthened by having their reading made so easy might be open to 
 debate ; but be this as it may, we find daily upon our tables essays 
 which, had they appeared in the Spectators, or Ramblers, or Tatters of 
 last century, would have been the talk of the town. Every day some 
 rising genius is beginning in this sphere a life of successful energy, or 
 some writer of established reputation is taking a part in its labours ; 
 for it is the tendency of this periodical system to draw the fixed stars 
 into the orbits of the revolving planetaries. Let us hope that the 
 increasing light will make us better as well as brighter. 
 
 If I could venture to say but little of the Belles Lettres, I can 
 scarcely say more of the Beaux Arts. But I cannot forbear remarking 
 that there has been during the last ten years a more widely-spread 
 taste for the fine arts, together with a more intelligent appreciation of 
 them, than in any previous period of our history. This is presented 
 to our observation in society ; but it is also, I am told, made manifest 
 by the demand for works on the literature of art, and for journals 
 devoted to it. What may have been the progress of the arts themselves 
 is matter for other consideration. All will, I presume, admit that 
 the architecture of ecclesiastical buildings has made great strides. 
 Whether secular architecture has advanced at an equal pace I am not 
 qualified to judge. Sculpture may be presumed to be not more than 
 stationary, even if it be allowed that recent sculptors can rival the 
 Bailys, the Westmacotts, and the Gibsons of former decades. What 
 is to be said of painting ? A reply to this question would require 
 more time and far more knowledge than I can command, and it might 
 plunge us at once into controversies. Let us be content with remarking
 
 88 TEN YEARS. 
 
 that the "prevalence of realism and naturalism is obvious to the most 
 superficial observer. How far this tendency has on the one side done 
 good by promoting a faithful study and imitation of the objective 
 world, and how far it has on the other side run into affectation, into a 
 puerile or archaic simplicity, a conscientious pursuit of ugliness, and a 
 fanatical contempt of beauty, I can no more undertake to determine, 
 than I can judge to what degree the unquestioned benefits conferred 
 on art by the illustrations or denunciations of Mr. Kuskin, atone for 
 the hastiness and irreverence of his judgments, the arrogance of his 
 criticism, and the vices, though they are often splendida mtia, of his 
 style. But it is, I know, the opinion of those who have most under- 
 standing in these matters, that he has been the author of a really 
 advantageous reaction in art. The changes we have seen in our time 
 are natural to human progress, excessive addiction for a season to 
 great masters and exemplars, and then a violent revolt against them. 
 A great artist is a man of original genius, who transfuses outward 
 nature with the colour of his own thought and fe"eling, and then so 
 represents what he sees, that it shall appear under the same aspects to 
 other eyes. The crowd of imitators look at nature vrith his eyes, and 
 adopt his models and procedures as if they were natural objects and 
 processes, so that at length by convention and tradition his works and 
 methods are authenticated into canonical types and established truths. 
 But in consequence of frequent and imperfect copying, with the 
 variations of addition and subtraction made by strong individualities, 
 the models come at last to be but faint shadows of the original 
 thoughts, and much less do they represent the original outward nature. 
 Then arises the necessity for the revolution which our own times have 
 witnessed, and with it the foundation of a school of naturalisti. 
 
 In our hasty and superficial glance at the progress of science in the 
 last ten years, I might have noticed the prominence given to those 
 subjects which are familiar to you by the designation of Social Science, 
 and for the promotion of which an important institution has arisen 
 under the auspices of a name with which this century might be 
 inscribed the century of Brougham. But long before the formation 
 of that institution there had been commenced a work more noble in its 
 aims and more satisfactory in its results, than any that have been 
 achieved or attempted even in this philanthropic age. I refer to the
 
 THE REPRESSION OF CRIME. 89 
 
 repression and prevention of juvenile crime by the reformation of the 
 offenders. The most distant and indifferent observer of social progress 
 could scarcely watch without emotion this holy and godlike movement. 
 But it is impossible that it should be contemplated without a glow of 
 enthusiasm by those who, like the majority of this audience, have a 
 local association with Mary Carpenter and Matthew Davenport Hill. 
 I venture to drop the conventional prefixes to these honoured names 
 names now belonging to no passing phase of manners, or artificial 
 grade of society, but names dear to mankind names bright with the 
 lustre reflected on them from the brightening destinies of the most 
 pitiable, and hitherto most neglected members of the human family. 
 I cannot attempt to present you with even the barest sketch of what 
 in these last years has been done by those persevering followers of the 
 example of Him, whose sacred and beneficent path was among 
 " publicans and sinners," and who came to call " not the righteous, 
 but sinners to repentance." Better than to wear the greenest wreaths 
 of mere literary fame better than to sit in the highest seats in the 
 realm is it to have in the memory, and heart, and conscience, that 
 they were the first to begin, and have been the most constant in carrying 
 on, by intellectual exertion of the highest order, by self-denial, and 
 by living laborious days, and too often laborious nights, a work which 
 has resulted in a marvellous reduction of the numbers of juvenile 
 criminals ; and it is obvious that a diminution of juvenile depravity 
 must necessarily bring as its consequence a tenfold diminution of 
 adult misery. Allow me to read to you a short extract from 
 a charge delivered last year by the Recorder of Birmingham: 
 "Whatever doubts and difficulties may hang over the question of the 
 diminution of crime in our adult population, although, speaking for 
 myself, I have a firm belief in the truth of some diminution, yet we 
 have overwhelming testimony that juvenile criminals are reduced in 
 numbers to an extent which, sanguine as I have always been in the 
 efficacy of preventive and reformatory measures, if well devised and 
 applied with skill and with Christian zeal and perseverance, I never 
 ventured to hope I should live to witness. I will not trouble you with 
 figures, not because they would not amply prove my statement, but 
 because they must challenge your attention almost daily in the public 
 journals ; presenting the statistical results in a multiplicity of forms, 
 and redoubling their value by the accordance which will be found 
 throughout the variety of aspects under which the subject is viewed.
 
 90 TEN YEARS. 
 
 But if, indeed, we were altogether unprovided with statistical evidence, 
 the experience of every day would convince us of this great and 
 auspicious fact. Several Reformatories have actually been closed for 
 lack of inmates, although established and conducted by able and earnest 
 philanthropists, whose interest in the work never decayed, and whose 
 trust in the enterprise never grew faint."* 
 
 This is true glory ; this is the kind of glory to which, above all 
 people, Englishmen should aspire. The world requires it of us. May 
 we not say that God requires it of us ? Of political and social advan- 
 tages no nation has so freely received, therefore none should so freely 
 give. In a somewhat extensive foreign tour, which (thanks to one of 
 the inventions of this age) I was enabled to take, in a brief holiday 
 last autumn, I passed through many lands which had been the scenes 
 of wasting wars, the fields of famous victories, rife with unnumbered 
 woes, even to the conquerors ; tracts of country along which broken 
 and disheartened hosts had dragged their disastrous retreat; plains 
 from which miserable peasants had fled in terror, leaving their homes 
 and all that had made life enjoyable or endurable, to be plundered 
 and ravaged by an infuriated soldiery ; towns and cities which had 
 suffered all the fright and suspense of siege, and the atrocities and 
 unspeakable horrors of storm and sack ; many within the last century ; 
 and, when I thought of my own dear country, and for how long a 
 period it had been spared such calamities, not merely by the valour of 
 our naval and military heroes, but mostly by that arrangement of 
 Providence which cast our lot in an island, I could not but feel that in 
 this setting us apart as an insulated people, exempt from the casualties 
 which must ever belong to continental territory in this ail-but favour- 
 itism of our fortunes we have incurred a heavy responsibility to the 
 rest of Europe. In this safety and retirement all works of peace 
 should flourish all science, philosophy, literature, and art should 
 culminate all that tends, in the immortal words of Bacon, " to the 
 glory of the Creator, and to the relief of man's estate." Here should 
 be tried the highest and most refined experiments in the conduct of 
 government, for the health, the wealth, and the happiness of peoples. 
 All political organisation, all political economy, all civil and municipal 
 arrangements, all attempts to combine the good of the many with that 
 of the few, should here find their fullest and freeest development- 
 
 * The efforts most comparable to these in benevolence have been those of Dr. 
 Conolly, the enlightened reformer of the treatment of the insane.
 
 THE DUTIES OF ENGLAND. 91 
 
 Here should be the models of hygiene, or sanitary legislation. Here 
 should arise the most enlightened systems for enabling the benevo- 
 lences of individual natures to co-operate most effectively towards 
 lightening the burthens of the poorer classes. With her natural 
 advantages England should be the school the university where 
 mankind might study and graduate in the highest humanities ! 
 
 It is not enough that the world receives from us examples, such as 
 our armies have presented during the last ten years, of the chivalrous 
 bravery which stormed the batteries of the Alma, rolled back the 
 myriad masses down the ridge of Inkermann, and burst the gates of 
 Delhi ; or of the fortitude and endurance which never fainted nor 
 faltered in the tents of Balaklava, in the trenches of Sebastopol, and 
 within the leaguers of Lucknow. Nor is it enough that we make 
 successful demonstration to the world that we so prize our land and its 
 privileges, our laws, our institutions, our liberties, our religion, and 
 our beloved homes, with their sisters and wives and daughters, the 
 purest, the fairest, and the tender est the world has known, so that 
 old and young, every man and every boy amongst us, is eager to be 
 made a soldier. This is not enough. This is not all that is required 
 of us. Our wars should be the most righteous and inevitable; our 
 rulers, the most just -and enlightened : our senators, the most patriotic 
 and the most free from faction ; our public servants, the most faithful; 
 our people, the most submissive to law, the most observant of order ; 
 our commerce, the most honest ; our education, the most extended, 
 and the best adapted to the wants both of the individual and of the 
 community ; the poor of our land, the best cared for both morally and 
 physically ; our sick and suffering, the most skilfully and mercifully 
 tended ; our hospitals and asylums, the largest ; our prisons, the 
 smallest ; our courts of law, the most easy to enter, the most easy to 
 leave ; our churches and chapels, the most crowded with worshippers, 
 and the most clear of superstition. In short, it is our duty to show the 
 nations of the world that we are not only brave and unconquerable, 
 but that we are also and pre-eminently, a wise, a virtuous, a humane, 
 and, in a word, what has scarcely yet been seen, a consistently 
 Christian people.
 
 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 AN INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS DELIVERED AT THE BRISTOL ATHENAEUM, 
 OCTOBER 5, 1846. 
 
 )HAT is knowledge ? How is it obtained ? What are its 
 principal divisions ? In what spirit should it be pursued ? 
 
 Whatever has entered from without into the mind of man, 
 and can be recalled by him, and whatever results from the 
 internal workings of his mind and can be communicated to another, 
 is knowledge. Thus Memory enters into, and is essential to, the very 
 simplest form of knowledge ; and therefore the Greeks might well 
 fable that the Muses, the imaginary inspirers of the different depart- 
 ments of knowledge, were daughters of Mnemosyne, or Memory. 
 The most elementary sensation, when remembered, may be a portion of 
 knowledge, though it is not such when it is merely perceived. For 
 example, you smell a flower ; your experience of the sensation is not 
 entitled to the designation of knowledge, unless, when the sensation 
 recurs, you can identify it. In order that it may be said truly that you 
 Tinwo the scent, it is not needful that you should have the power of 
 reproducing it, as you do with an impression made on the organ 
 of sight. You, perhaps, say, "I cannot recall, or reproduce it, but I 
 should know it, if it were again presented to me," that is, you would 
 remember that you had once experienced a precisely similar sensation. 
 In like manner we often say, "I cannot recollect the name or the face 
 of an individual, but I should know it, were I again to hear or see it," 
 that is, "I should remember I had seen or heard it." This is the 
 most simple of all kinds of knowledge. But our sensations are some-
 
 DIFFERENT DEGREES IN KNOWLEDGE. 95 
 
 times so distinctly remembered that we can describe them to others, so 
 as to produce in their minds impressions of the same nature, but 
 fainter in degree ; this is a higher step in knowledge. A traveller 
 visits new countries ; he sees and hears many new things ; and all, or 
 much, of what he has seen and heard he can tell to others, and to them 
 those lands are no longer unknown. But what he tells may in the 
 minds of his listeners engender far greater knowledge than what the 
 traveller himself possesses, for reasons which we shall see directly. 
 
 There is a simple knowledge of a thing, and there is a scientific 
 knowledge of it ; a knowledgeable knowledge, that is, knowledge 
 added to knowledge. A rustic walks with his son to the sea-shore, and 
 points out to him a steam-boat. He knows it to be of that kind of 
 vessels, though to the son it is altogether a new phenomenon. The 
 father had the knowledge which the son had not ; but it may be the 
 mere knowledge that it is a ship without sails, and is called a steam- 
 boat. But they are joined by a third person, who can tell how the 
 vessel is impelled in opposition to wind and tide ; he knows the properties 
 of steam, the construction of machinery, &c., he has a scientific 
 knowledge of the steamer. 
 
 This higher kind of knowledge consists in knowing things in their 
 relations or connections. And the instinctive desire to know, is often a 
 craving for the ascertainment of these relations. To a person blessed 
 with reason it is almost impossible to observe a thing, or hear of an 
 event, without wishing to have such information about it as will con- 
 nect it with something previously in his mind. Strange to say, the- 
 inore slender his stock of knowledge, the more easily is he satisfied. 
 A peasant picks up a fragment of a fossil animal. He sees that 
 it differs from ordinary pieces of stonj, and wishes to know more 
 about it. If he is told that it is a piece of a petrified animal he is 
 satisfied. But let it be shown to a naturalist, and he is unhappy till 
 he has made out what sort of animal it belonged to ; a mammal, or a 
 bird, or a reptile, or a fish ; if a reptile, whether of the order of - 
 turtles, or lizards, or serpents, or frogs ; if a turtle, whether a sea 
 turtle or a land turtle, and so on. The larger the mass of knowledge, 
 the greater are its axigmentations, while it is in progress ; just as the 
 rolling snow-ball takes up an amount of snow proportionate to its 
 dimensions ; or, to use a more scientific comparison, just as the foreo 
 of attraction is stronger in large masses of matter, so a great collection 
 of knowledge draws more to itself.
 
 94 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 No\v, what are the relations or connections of things ? The shortest 
 expression would be, that they are comprised in the answers to those 
 interrogative monosyllables. What ? How ? Why ? But we must 
 consider them rather more fully. The first and most natural, or I 
 should rather say, the most easily perceived relation, is the likeness of 
 things. Great satisfaction is enjoyed in finding out similitudes, and a 
 very large share of the acquirements of childhood depend on this 
 relation. Upon this also is founded the scientific classification of 
 objects. In proportion to the previous knowledge of objects, will the 
 possessor of it be likely to discern likenesses for things newly per- 
 ceived. An uninstructed person discovers a new plant, which he 
 describes to a botanist ; the latter immediately recognizes its similarity 
 to certain other plants, and he may be able to tell at once whether it is 
 a fit article of food or a poison. 
 
 Similarity must be carefully distinguished from Analogy, which is 
 often confounded with it, but which consists not in likeness of objects, 
 but in likeness of their relations. There is no similarity between a ship 
 and a bird, but there is an analogy ; for as the bird is moved through 
 the air by the mutual action and re-action of its wings and the air, so 
 is the ship, by a similar relation between the air and its sails. There 
 is no resemblance between the leaf of a plant and the lungs of an 
 animal ; but there is an analogy, because they bear similar relations 
 to the organic systems to which they respectively belong. The per- 
 ception and investigation of analogies has often been the product of the 
 highest exertions of the human intellect. From this process sprang 
 the Philosophical Anatomy of the present age ; and to it we owe the 
 immortal work of Bishop Butler, which is so well characterized in the 
 words inscribed on his monument in our Cathedral, by Southey : 
 " Others had established the historical and prophetical grounds of the 
 Christian religion, and that sure testimony of truth which is found in 
 its perfect adaptation to the heart of man. It was reserved for him to 
 develope its analogy to the Constitution and Course of Nature ; and, 
 laying his strong foundations in the depth of that great argument, 
 there to construct another and irrefragable proof; thus rendering 
 Philosophy subservient to Faith, and finding in outward and visible 
 things the type and evidence of those within the veil." 
 
 Another relation in which things are known is that of Cause and 
 Effect ; a relation belonging to the highest departments of philosophy, 
 both speculative and practical. How things act, or are acted upon by
 
 CAUSE AND EFFECT. 95 
 
 others, comprises a large enumeration of properties. The discernment 
 of this relation results from an innate tendency of the intellect. The 
 dullest and least inquisitive of minds can rarely refrain from seeking 
 it, in some such questions as, " How came the event to pass ?" " What 
 produced it ?" &c. The universality and strength of this propensity 
 of the mind would suggest to us its connection with the practical 
 matters of human life, even if we did not know, as we well do, that 
 the operations of man are founded upon it, and that with it are 
 associated those most cogent of motives, Hope and Fear. The 
 untutored savage hears a sound that gives him pleasure ; he must find 
 out what caused the sound ; for he hopes to ensure its repetition. He 
 awakes from sleep with a sensation of pain in one of his limbs ; he 
 must ascertain the cause, to prevent its recurrence. Philosophers have 
 proved that the relation of cause and effect is nothing more than 
 invariable antecedence and sequence ; that is, that a cause is some- 
 thing which invariably happens in point of time before that which is 
 called the effect ; and the effect is that which never happens without 
 having been preceded by what is designated the cause. Moreover, the 
 cause is strictly not only the invariable, but also the immediate, ante- 
 cedent. Causes, however, are often spoken of more loosely. Thus, an 
 vent may be said to have had several different causes ; by which are 
 meant several remote antecedents ; but it can have but one proximate 
 or immediate antecedent. Some gunpowder has exploded. What 
 caused the explosion ? It might have been occasioned by the appli- 
 cation of a taper, or a red-hot iron, or the concentration of the sun's 
 rays by a lens, or the passing of an electric spark. There may have 
 been many causes, then, but only in the sense of remote antecedents ; 
 for there was one event which intervened between them all and the 
 effect, and that was the elevation of the powder to a certain degree of 
 temperature, whereupon the particles suddenly assumed a gaseous 
 form, and so constituted the explosion. 
 
 Much confusion in the use of the word " Cause" has arisen from 
 the old Aristotelian division of causes into the material, the formal, 
 the efficient, and the final. To understand this division, you must bear 
 in mind that causes (curtcu) were not what we now mean by the term ; 
 that is, agents antecedent to, or productive of, certain things or events ; 
 but they were the reasons for a thing being what it is. The material 
 and the formal causes can only be apprehended after a knowledge of 
 ihe ancient theory respecting matter and form; namely, that matter 

 
 96 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 was the imaginary substratum of all tilings, but entirely devoid of 
 properties of any kind ; that form was that which, when superinduced 
 upon matter, endowed it with properties, and converted it into substance, 
 Substance, then, in this view, was the offspring begotten of form on 
 matter, and hence the fanciful supposition of material and formal 
 causes or reasons. The efficient cause was what we now understand by 
 a cause. The final cause was the purpose to be accomplished by the 
 thing of which it was predicated. The use of a thing is certainly a 
 reason for its existence, but it does not suggest how it came into, 
 existence ; except that, from the use we infer a mind that contrived it, 
 and thus arrive at an efficient cause. 
 
 The third relation requires only a passing notice. It is that of 
 Composition, or the relation between parts, whether integral, or con- 
 stituent. As to the latter, Can the thing be decomposed into different 
 substances or elements ? As to the former, Does the arrangement 
 of the parts, in reference to the whole, induce us to place it in the 
 organic, or in the inorganic kingdom ? 
 
 Under a fourth relation may be placed Quantity and Proportion, or 
 relative magnitude and relative number. The sciences founded on 
 this relation are called the Exact Sciences, and belong to Mathematics. 
 The truths involved in them are said to be necessary, as distinguished 
 from those which are contingent. The former are said to be necessary, 
 because the mind cannot conceive their opposites ; such, for instance^ 
 as the statements, "that two lines cannot inclose a space;" and "that 
 two sides of a triangle are together greater than the third side ;" while 
 the declaration that " all birds are oviparous," is a contingent truth ;. 
 that is, it is true till an exception is found, which is conceivable, though 
 not probable. I must warn you, however, that philosophers are by no 
 means agreed upon this distinction. Mr. John Stuart Mill, the pro- 
 foundest writer of the day on subjects of this nature, adduces cogent 
 reasons for believing that even mathemetical truths are derived from 
 experience, and are not founded on our incapability of conceiving them 
 otherwise than as they are. For the analysis of these truths I refer 
 you to his masterly treatise on Logic. 
 
 Having thus noticed the relations in which things are known, we 
 must next turn our attention to the processes whereby we acquire 
 knowledge. These are, Observation and Reasoning.
 
 OBSERVATION. 97 
 
 Observation may be defined as the active and disciplined use of our 
 senses. Small, indeed, is the scientific knowledge obtained by merely 
 passively seeing and hearing and feeling. We must look and listen, 
 and touch and handle, and weigh and measure, and register, if we 
 hope to make any important discoveries. The senses are said to be the 
 windows through which the mind takes cognizance of the universe. 
 But if the mind lies dormant in its prison-house, faint will be the 
 light, and few the images of outward objects, that reach it through 
 those narrow port-holes. It must arouse itself and look out and devise 
 all manner of helps and instruments for improving its perception, and 
 bringing objects more nearly within its ken ; and then the fleshly 
 tenement is no longer a darksome cell ; it has become a glorious obser- 
 vatory, from which the soul may gaze into the starry Infinite. 
 
 But the senses must not only be active ; they must also be instructed 
 and disciplined. There is the " tactus eruditus" the learned touch, the 
 learned sight, and the learned bearing ; learned in two meanings, 
 one having reference to the accumulated knowledge which throws light 
 on the present objects of perception, so as to make them reveal what 
 would be withheld from a less intelligent observer ; in the other signifi- 
 cation, experienced as to the exercise of the organ ; for example, being 
 able by practice to detect fallacies, to distinguish spectra from actual 
 objects. 
 
 Lastly, the senses must be unbiassed. If true observations are to 
 be made, there must be no prejudices, no coloured media to bedim or 
 distort the light. 
 
 It is not, however, always sufficient to set our senses to work on the 
 objects, just as the latter are presented to us. We must alter their 
 position, see them under new lights, and in unaccustomed environ- 
 ments. Things that seemed like may then be found to be vastly 
 diiferent. By withdrawing one of a series of events, or of a congeries 
 of substances, we ascertain what was necessary in causation, or essen- 
 tial in composition. We, in fact, add experiment to observation. 
 Harvey puts a ligature on an artery or a vein, and, by the direction of 
 the obstruction finds the current of the blood ; and Davy makes his 
 potent galvanic battery tear asunder the potassium and oxygen, which 
 under a lertium quid had effectually concealed themselves from former 
 investigators. 
 
 The other method of acquiring knowledge is Reasoning, or Infer- 
 ence, whereby the mind proceeds from the known to the unknown. 
 
 H
 
 98 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Reasoning did not originally mean mere inference. It was the dis- 
 cerning of those relations of tilings winch we have already noticed, 
 and it corresponded to the word Discourse, derived from the Latin 
 discurrere, to run over, to traverse objects. It was used in this signifi- 
 cation by Hamlet : 
 
 " Sure He that hath made us with such large discourse, 
 Looking before and after, gave us not 
 That capability and god-like reason, 
 To rust in us unused." 
 
 But Reasoning in the present day means Inference, or drawing 
 conclusions, or making the knowledge we already possess lead our 
 minds to the knowledge of something new. When the train of reason- 
 ing which has convinced an individual of some truth, is presented by 
 him in a form designed to impress the same truths on another, it is 
 called an argument. Reasoning is of two kinds, Ratiocination and 
 Induction. The former, which may also be called Deduction, consists 
 in shewing that if such and such pieces of information are received as 
 true, certain others deducible from them must also be true. It is 
 reasoning from generals to particulars ; for the conclusion is a limited 
 truth now proved to be inclosed in a more comprehensive one already 
 admitted. The formal exhibition of this process is a Syllogism. It 
 consists of three propositions, the third being proved by a comparison 
 of the first and second. I need not go into the technicalities of the 
 major and minor terms and premisses, as you will find them fully set 
 forth in common books of Logic. The syllogistic method has often 
 been misused for the purposes of mere verbal controversy, and the 
 almost exclusive attention to the truths ascertained by means of it, for 
 some centuries prior to the time of Lord Bacon, no doubt impeded the 
 progress of knowledge. But the judicious use of it, even in its most 
 technical form, imparts a habit of close scrutiny into the meanings of 
 words, and into the import of propositions. In its more enlarged 
 scope, or that of Deductive Reasoning, it is a most important process 
 of evolving minor principles ; minor in one sense, though of high practical 
 value, and wrapped up in greater ones. Ratiocination, then, is not 
 merely " chopping logic ; " that is, formally stating the major and 
 minor premisses, and then dragging in the priggish, pedantic "ergo." 
 Great discoverers have promulgated principles, the important deduc- 
 tions from which were not thought of by themselves ; and minds of the 
 most exalted powers have been employed in deducing truths from the
 
 REASONING INDUCTION. 99 
 
 vide embracing principles previously laid down. The whole science 
 of Geometry lies enfolded, as it were, in what are called the Axioms 
 and Definitions ; but to unroll these cerements, and to disclose the body 
 of doctrine they contain, has given work to the most skilful and 
 capacious intellects in many successive ages. 
 
 The other process of reasoning is Induction ; or, the inferring of 
 general truths from particular facts, reasoning from particulars to 
 generals. We infer that what has been found true of a number of 
 individuals will apply to other like individuals. We ascertain from a 
 sufficient number of instances that animals with teeth of a certain form 
 feed on a certain kind of food, and have a certain arrangement of the 
 digestive apparatus. When we meet with a new animal having teeth 
 which resemble those of the class described, we anticipate that it will 
 require corresponding food. And so as to the investigation of cause 
 and effect. If in an adequate number of cases the succession has been 
 observed, we confidently infer a recurrence of the sequence. Lavoisier 
 having classed under the name Acids those substances which resemble 
 each other in the property of reddening vegetable blues, and of forming 
 neutral salts with earthy or metallic oxides, found by repeated obser- 
 vations and trials, that these several substances, however varying in 
 composition in other respects, all contained oxygen ; whence he thought 
 himself Avarranted in concluding that oxygen was the acidifying agent, 
 and he anticipated that in every acid that element would be detected. 
 This was a specimen of Induction apparently sound enough at the 
 time it was formed. But examples of Acids have been since discovered, 
 devoid of the element in question, and therefore the generalisation 
 could not be retained. 
 
 To illustrate the necessity of an abundance of instances in reason- 
 ing by Induction, I must read you the following amusing quotation 
 from Mr. Macaulay's Essay on Lord Bacon : 
 
 " Though every body," he observes, "is constantly performing the 
 process described in the second book of the Novum Organum, some men 
 perform it well, and some men perform it ill. Some are led by it to 
 truth, and some to error. It led Franklin to discover the nature of 
 Lightning. It led thousands who had less brains than Franklin to 
 believe in Animal Magnetism. But this was not because Franklin 
 went through the process described by Bacon, and the dupes of Mesmer 
 through a different process. * * * We have heard that an 
 eminent Judge of the last generation was in the habit of jocosely pro-
 
 100 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 pounding after dinner a theory, that the cause of Jacobinism was the 
 practice of bearing three names. He quoted on the one side, Charles 
 James Fox, Richard Brinsley Sheridan, John Home Tooke, John 
 Philpot Curran, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Theobald Wolfe Tone. 
 These were instantm convenientes. He then proceeded to cite instances 
 absentia in proximo. William Pitt, John Scott, William Windham, 
 Samuel Horsley, Henry Dundas, Edmund Burke. He might have 
 gone on to instanti secundum magis et minus. The practice of giving- 
 children three names is more common in America than in England. 
 In England we still have a King and a House of Lords ; but the 
 Americans are Republicans. The rejections are obvious. Burke and 
 Theobald Wolfe Tone, were both Irishmen ; therefore the being an 
 Irishman is not the cause of Jacobinism. Horsley and Home Tooke, 
 are both Clergymen ; therefore the being a Clergyman is not the cause 
 of Jacobinism. Pox and Windham were both educated at Oxford ; 
 therefore the being educated at Oxford is not the cause of Jacobinism. 
 Pitt and Home Tooke were both educated at Cambridge ; therefore 
 the being educated at Cambridge is not the cause of Jacobinism. 
 In this way our inductive philosopher arrives at what Bacon calls the 
 vintaffe, and pronounces the having three names is the cause of 
 Jacobinism. Here is an induction corresponding with Bacon's 
 analysis, and ending in a monstrous absurdity. In what, then, does 
 this induction differ from the induction which leads us to the con- 
 clusion, that the presence of the Sun is the cause of our having more 
 light by day than by night ? The difference evidently is, not in the 
 kind of instances, but in the number of instances ; that is to say, the 
 difference is not in that part of the process for which Bacon has given 
 precise rules, but in a circumstance for which no precise rule can 
 possibly be given. If the learned author of the theory about Jacobinism 
 had enlarged either of his tables a little his system would have been 
 destroyed. The names of Tom Payne and William Windham Gren- 
 ville would have been sufficient to do the work." 
 
 Before quitting the subject of Reasoning, I must observe that 
 Archbishop Whateley and others aver that every train of reasoning,, 
 even the Inductive, may be put into a syllogistic form ; but it is also 
 maintained that the conclusion is contained in the major premiss ; and 
 therefore it has been urged by others that if these views be correct, 
 there an be no progression in Reasoning, no advance into new know- 
 ledge, if the process only tells us what we have already stated by
 
 THE VALUE OF THE SYLLOGISM. 101 
 
 implication in the major premiss. Mr. Mill, however, has taken pains 
 to shew that Induction is really reasoning from particulars to particulars, 
 and not, as in the syllogism, from generals to particulars. He says, 
 by way of illustration, that if you choose you may deduce the mortality 
 of the Duke of Wellington, according to the common formula ; 
 
 All men are mortal ; 
 
 The Duke of Wellington is a man ; 
 
 Therefore the Duke of Wellington is mortal. 
 But the major premiss is merely a register or commemorative 
 statement of our experience as to a number of individuals, and of our 
 inferences as to other like individuals. The mortality of William is 
 inferred from that of John and Thomas, and that of the Duke of 
 Wellington is inferred in the same way. That is, we anticipate that 
 what has happened to a vast number of individuals bearing the 
 attributes of humanity will happen also to the Duke. " That all men 
 are mortal," then, is a register or note of our inferences as to individual 
 men, and the conclusion as to the mortality of the Duke is not an 
 inference from that statement, but a reference to it, or, to quote Mr. 
 Mill's own words ; " All inference is from particulars to particulars ; 
 general propositions are merely registers of such inferences already 
 made, and short formulae for making more ; the major premiss of a 
 syllogism consequently is a formula of this description ; and the con- 
 clusion is not an inference drawn from the formula, but an inference 
 drawn according to the formula ; the real logical antecedent, or premisses, 
 being the particular facts from which the general proposition was 
 collected by induction." Mill's Logic, Yol. 1, p. 259. 
 
 But without going further into these interesting points, I may hint 
 to you, that, after all, the value of the syllogism is not to be sought in 
 the conclusion, but in the juxtaposition of the premisses. When these 
 are brought together, any simpleton can draw the inference. And, 
 indeed, the merit of any new train of reasoning, whether inductive or 
 syllogistic, consists in the bringing together, for the first time, things 
 which had not been previously so associated. Eeasoning, then, is 
 essentially, and freed from technicalities, neither more nor less than 
 what plain people speak of, as putting things together in a way that will 
 suggest to the mind some new information or conclusion.* 
 
 * In connection with this suhject I beg to refer the reader to an excellent little 
 work, entitled, " Lectures on Logic, &c., delivered at Bristol College by Francis W. 
 Newman, Esq., late Eellow of Balliol College, Oxford, 1838."
 
 102 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 We now proceed to the classification of Knowledge. The illus- 
 trious Bacon distributed Learning or Knowledge, according to the three 
 principal faculties of the mind, to wit, Memory, Imagination, and 
 Reason, correspondently with which the three principal divisions are r 
 History, Poesy, and Philosophy. But, with all our reverence for 
 whatever has proceeded from so exalted an intellect as that of Lord 
 Bacon, we cannot but perceive that this arrangement is very defective. 
 There are no departments that belong by any means exclusively to any 
 one of those faculties. History involves not only the records of 
 Memory, but also the operations of Reason in judging, comparing,, 
 and inferring. Philosophy again cannot be prosecuted by Reason, 
 without the aid of Memory ; and Poesy requires Memory and Reason, 
 scarcely less than its peculiar instrument, Imagination. Nevertheless,, 
 these faculties may still be considered the types of the mental opera- 
 tions respectively performed in these several departments. But other 
 difficulties are afterwards encountered. In many sciences, we cannot 
 separate the commemorative from the speculative or reasoning part. 
 The very method which Lord Bacon himself so strongly urged for 
 studying nature, when carried out, introduces us to knowledge, which, 
 cannot be divided in accordance with his arrangement, although it 
 appeared to suit the condition of learning in general, and of philosophy 
 in particular, at the time that he produced his memorable work on the 
 Advancement of Learning. 
 
 After these remarks it may appear very presumptuous in me to- 
 offer the following scheme ; but I do so with great humility. I must 
 first, however, advert to the old division of knowledge, into Sciences 
 and Arts. Most of our knowledge began with Arts, the first 
 attempts at subjugating matter and its forces to the will of man. In 
 the prosecution of these arts, knowledge was accumulated; and in 
 time, the principles on which the arts are founded, began to be 
 separated from the processes themselves. Afterwards the assistance 
 becomes reciprocal. What Science had borrowed from Art, she now 
 repays with interest, by indicating that the purposes of Art may be 
 more securely and successfully accomplished by attention to certain 
 principles. Most Arts, then, have their correlative Sciences, and most 
 Sciences their correlative Arts. The Arts are divisible into the Useful 
 and the Pine Arts. The Pine are those which minister to our sense of 
 the Beautiful, viz. : Poetry, Painting, Sculpture, and Music. The 
 Useful Arts extend from the simplest handicrafts, to those exquisite
 
 SCIENCES. 
 
 I Astronomy 
 1 Geography 
 
 PHENOMENA ...< Geology ... 
 1 Mineralogy 
 I Meteorology 
 
 / 
 
 Mechanics 
 Hydraulics 
 
 FORCES J H y drostatic s 
 
 J "< Pneumatics 
 
 Optics 
 
 Acoustics 
 
 \Electro-Magnetism 
 111 
 
 COMPOSITION ... Chemistry 
 O 
 
 RELATIONS OF ^ f Geometry 
 
 -I MAGNITUDE AND [ Mathematics ) Arithmetic 
 
 NUMBER ...-...)* " s ^Algebra... 
 
 > ( The Higher Calculi ... 
 
 f Classification Botany 1 
 
 / VEGETABLES ... < Structure Anatomy > 
 
 \ ^Function Physiology 3 
 
 f Classification Zoology i 
 
 ANIMALS < Structure Comparative Anatomy ...> 
 
 (Function Comparative Physiology ) 
 
 O _ 
 
 Bodv 5 Stricture Human Anatomy ) 
 
 y \ Function... Human Physiology ...J 
 
 ^ A 
 O P5 Species 
 
 MAN... 
 
 Mind ^ Esthetics 
 
 Races ... . 
 
 Nations 
 
 Individuals. 
 
 NATURAL THEOLOGY. 
 REVELATION. 
 
 Ethnography. 
 
 History and Antiquities. 
 
 Biography.
 
 ARTS. 
 
 , Navigation. 
 
 { Mining Operations. 
 | Agriculture. 
 Medicine. 
 
 Useful and 
 Manufacturing Arts. 
 
 ' Agriculture. 
 Horticulture. 
 . Medicine. 
 
 ( Breeding of Animals. 
 '" \ Veterinary Medicine. 
 
 f Hygilne. 
 -< Medicine. 
 C Surgery. 
 
 f Education. 
 ... < Logic. 
 ( Politics. 
 
 t Poetry. 
 " (Fine Arts. 
 
 5 Ehetoric. 
 '" i Elocution.
 
 A TABLE OF THE SCIENCES. 103 
 
 and complicated inventions, -which have been brought to so high a 
 pitch of excellence in the present day, by help of Mechanical Science. 
 
 In the Table, you perceive that I have distributed the Sciences in 
 the first place with reference to Objects of Knowledge, in either of 
 those two grand domains of nature, the Inorganic, and the Organic ; 
 to Man himself who surveys these objects ; and to the Supreme 
 Artificer and Governor of all things. 
 
 The Sciences belonging to the Inorganic kingdom, are classified as 
 treating : 1st of the PJienomena of objects, and the comprehending (a) 
 Astronomy, so far as it is occupied with observations on the relative 
 position and motions of the heavenly bodies ; (V) Geography, or obser- 
 vations on the surface of the earth, especially the distribution of land 
 and ocean, of lakes and rivers, of mountains and valleys ; (c] Geology, 
 or observations on the crust of the earth, its rocks and strata, and 
 their organic contents ; (d] Mineralogy, or the components of rocks and 
 strata ; (e) Meteorology, or observations on the atmosphere. 
 
 The second subdivision is founded on the Forces of Matter, and 
 includes Sciences which I must content myself with enumerating. 
 They are, Mechanics, Hydraulics, Hydrostatics, Pneumatics, Optics, 
 Acoustics, and Electro-magnetism. 
 
 The third subdivision rests upon Composition, and the forces or 
 affinities which determine it, and it is occupied by the great name of 
 Chemistry, a science which is every day enlarging its acquisitions and 
 its importance to the human race. 
 
 Under the fourth subdivision are arranged those Sciences which 
 treat of the proportions and measurement of matter in space, or 
 Number and Magnitude. They are called Pure Mathematics, and 
 include Geometry, Arithmetic, Algebra, and the higher Calculi. 
 
 The Sciences appertaining to the Organic kingdom, are subdivided 
 according as they treat of Vegetables or Animals ; and therefore we 
 have, 1st, Botany and Vegetable Anatomy and Physiology ; 2nd, 
 Zoology, and Comparative Anatomy and Physiology. The term Com- 
 parative, arose from the study of the anatomy of animals as compared 
 with that of man. 
 
 Man belongs to the organic kingdom ; but for the purposes of our 
 present classification, we may fairly take him out of it, both because 
 he is the only species capable of looking at the kingdom over which he 
 is placed, and also from the great variety of the branches of know- 
 ledge of which he is the object. These sciences are, I hope, sufficiently 
 indicated and distinguished in the Scheme.
 
 104 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 The fourth general division is devoted to Religion, Natural and 
 Uevealed ; the knowledge of God's dealings with the world and with 
 man, and man's relations to God, in connection with his present life 
 and future destiny. 
 
 I need scarcely remark that all these Sciences are less or more 
 closely connected one with another, and reciprocate much illustration. 
 
 It will be convenient in this place to notice one or two popular 
 distinctions. One of these is the separation of Science and Literature. 
 Literature, in its widest sense, embraces all knowledge which has been 
 committed to writing. All recorded observations of nature, and all 
 systems of Philosophy belong to it. But there is a department of 
 Literature unconnected with Natural Science, or Philosophy. It 
 comprehends History (proper), Biography, Antiquities, the Study 
 of Languages, Poetry, Rhetoric, and Imaginative Writing in general, 
 as well as the lighter branches of Philosophy, or those bearing on the 
 Fine Arts. These several topics belong to Literature, par excellence. 
 If from the heads I have just enumerated, you subtract History, 
 Antiquities, and Biography, there remain those species of learning 
 which the French denominate Belles Lettres, and which with us are 
 often called Polite or Elegant Literature, or the Literature of Taste, a 
 phrase adopted by Mr. Hallam in his great work on the Literature 
 of Europe. 
 
 Another distinction common in men's mouths is that of Physical or 
 Mechanical Science, as separate from Philosophy, par excellence, 
 otherwise called Speculative Philosophy ; the former appertaining to 
 objects, the knowledge of which is acquired through the senses ; the 
 latter only by consciousness or reflection. To this department the 
 term Metaphysics is often applied. 
 
 There is, as you well know, a branch of Literature called Classical. 
 Any work of surpassing excellence is classical, the term having been 
 derived from classici, the highest order of Roman citizens. But the 
 name is specially assigned to those wonderful remains of antiquity, 
 derived from the learning of Greece and Rome. The vast superiority 
 of Greece in sesthetical literature as well as in pure philosophy, was 
 confessed by the most accomplished poets and orators of Rome, who 
 made the works of the very people whom they had conquered, their 
 models for imitation. Under the revival of learning which ensued on 
 the Dark Ages, the Greek and Roman writings were eagerly sought 
 and studied, and their character has lost nothing by the flux of time.
 
 THE PHYSICAL SCIENCES. 105 
 
 " Still green with bays each antient altar stands, 
 Above the reach of sacrilegious hands ; 
 Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, 
 Destructive war, and all-involving age. 
 Hail bards triumphant ! born in happier days, 
 Immortal heirs of universal praise ! 
 Whose honours with increase of ages grow, 
 As streams roll down, enlarging as they flow." 
 
 If you once more throw your eyes over the Scheme, you will 
 perceive that the Sciences there enumerated, with their correlative 
 Arts, may be thrown into four large groups. 
 
 I. The Physical Sciences. 
 
 II. The Psychical, or those appertaining to Vegetable and Animal 
 
 Life. 
 
 HI. The Speculative. 
 
 IV. Literature. 
 
 Upon the general character and influence of these several divisions, 
 I shall offer some brief comments. And first, as to the Physical 
 Sciences, I may remark, that setting all other advantages aside, they 
 present a wonderful combination of agencies for calling into exercise 
 the various powers of the mind, the highest and most comprehensive, 
 the exactest and most laborious. They have given at once employ- 
 ment and inspiration to some of the greatest intellects the world has 
 ever known : the Keplers, the Newtons, the Laplaces, and the 
 Herschels, the Lavoisiers, Davys, and Daltons, the Watts, and 
 Stephensons, the Faradays, Oersteds, and Liebigs. In the pursuit of 
 these Sciences all that in the mind of man is precise in observation, 
 extensive in combination, subtle in analysis, ingenious in application, 
 and beneficial in purpose, may be brought to bear on the objects of his 
 thought, and the work of his hands. In this wide domain were 
 achieved those grand triumphs over matter, which the world owes to 
 the genius of our immortal countryman, Lord Bacon ; who pointed out 
 to mankind where lay the secret riches of the universe, unheeded by 
 successive centuries, and locked up, as if by a magic spell, till the 
 fated words burst from his inspired lips ; and then the doors of the 
 cavern flew open, and disclosed priceless treasures which might have 
 been for ever hidden from the admiration and use of mortals, if no 
 such prophet had arisen in our land. But why should I attempt with 
 my feeble words to recount the advantages derived from these 
 wonderful sciences, when prosecuted under the guidance of the
 
 106 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Baconian Philosophy ? Eather let me borrow the eloquence of Mr. 
 
 Macaulay : 
 
 " Ask a follower of Bacon what the New Philosophy (as it was 
 called in the time of Charles II.) has effected for mankind, and his 
 answer is ready. ' It has lengthened life ; it has mitigated pain ; it 
 has extinguished diseases ; it has increased the fertility of the soil ; it 
 has given new security to the mariner ; it has furnished new arms to 
 the warrior ; it has spanned great rivers and estuaries with bridges of 
 form unknown to our fathers ; it has guided the thunderbolt inno- 
 cuously from heaven to earth ; it has lighted up the night with the 
 splendour of the day ; it has extended the range of the human vision ; 
 it has multiplied the power of the human muscles ; it has accelerated 
 motion ; it has annihilated distance ; it has facilitated intercourse, 
 correspondence, all friendly offices, all dispatches of business ; it has 
 enabled man to descend to the depths of the sea, to soar into the air, 
 to penetrate securely into the noxious recesses of the earth, to traverse 
 the land on cars which whirl along without horses, and the ocean in 
 ships which sail against the wind. These are but a part of its fruits 
 and of its first fruits. For it is a philosophy which never rests, which 
 has never attained its end, which is never perfect, its law is progress. 
 A point which yesterday was invisible, is its goal to-day, and will be 
 its starting-post to-morrow.' "* 
 
 The second large division, which I designate as the Psychical 
 Sciences, have, like the first, external nature for their object ; the wide 
 world of life and organization ; a world of infinite variety and beauty. 
 The sweep of these sciences may not be so wide as of those which 
 traverse the paths of planets, or decompound the star-dust of Heaven 
 into myriads of bright worlds far surpassing the magnitude of our 
 globe; nor can it be said that the arts which belong to them have 
 effected any thing like the same degree of subserviency of natural 
 forces to the will of man ; but to the contemplation of the philoso- 
 pher they afford matter for at least equally close investigation and 
 scrutiny ; and the study of them is relieved by ever fresh types of 
 beauty and power, and proofs of the all-pervading might and goodness 
 of the Great Father of All. In many of the investigations connected 
 with this department of knowledge, there is a fascination derived from 
 the very mystery which hangs over all the processes of life. You sit 
 under the shade of a wide-spreading oak on a midsummer noonday, 
 
 * Edinburgh Review, Vol. 65, p. 82.
 
 THE PSYCHICAL SCIENCES. 10" 
 
 when not a leaf stirs in the still air, and you might fancy for a 
 moment that the vast fabric above you was inanimate as the ground 
 on which you rest. But you know that, were your eyes microscopic, 
 and your ears attuned to the more delicate sounds in nature, you might 
 find in every point unceasing work and motion, fluids rushing hither 
 and hither, nutritive particles laid down, and effete ones carried away ; 
 and the "old oak tree" would appear to you as busy a scene, and 
 infinitely better ordered, as the most thickly-peopled of our cities, with 
 their thronged streets and lanes, and their continuous whirl and 
 turmoil. And the pool of water beside you, with its green summer 
 mantle, which presents at first no sign of motion, but an occasional 
 dimpling from the wing of some restless fly on its surface, would to 
 keener senses become populous with life, shewing multitudes of 
 living beings of strange shapes, disporting themselves in their world 
 as gaily as any of those that in regions more cognizable to us, play in 
 the sunbeam, or frolic on the green sward. Such beautiful surprises 
 may come upon the eye which, aided by the resources of Science and Art, 
 can penetrate the veil which for ages hid these worlds of life from 
 human vision. But grander and ampler views are within the reach of 
 the naturalist. To stand on the elevated ground which Cuvier took, 
 and hear him, not only, like his great prototype, give names to the 
 various species, but also arrange all the animated beings around him 
 in natural families and nations, technically called genera, and orders, 
 and classes, and kingdoms ; or to see him take up the fragment of a 
 bone belonging to an animal whose generation had passed away long 
 ages before the present dynasty of living creatures, and shew with 
 irrefragable logic how from the harmony of forms and correlation of 
 parts, the animal must have been of such mould and fashion as with 
 his magic pencil he sketches before your eyes ; or to hear how the 
 living forms, various as they seem, have been composed upon a very 
 few simpler types, if not indeed upon one plan, the mutations of which 
 have been adapted with marvellous skill to the surrounding conditions 
 of existence; these are occupations worthy of the largest faculties, 
 the most gifted genius. I have not time even to hint at the many 
 beautiful discoveries of modern times in Human and Comparative 
 Anatomy and Physiology; nor would it be "becoming in me, on the 
 present occasion, to dwell upon the immense value of the applications 
 of science to the good of man, which have been derived from the 
 science and art of Medicine. But in surveying the several branches of 
 knowledge belonging to this division, it is impossible to estimate them
 
 108 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 too highly, as affording wholesome discipline of the intellectual powers 
 charming to the sense of the beautiful, and leading to some of the 
 worthiest of purposes ; and in connection with them, let me remind 
 you of the names of Hippocrates, Aristotle, Pliny, Harvey, Ray, 
 Cuvier, Hunter and Tenner. 
 
 The third group embraces the Speculative Sciences, or Intellectual, 
 Moral, and JEsthetical Philosophy ; knowledge which is not derived 
 so much from without as from within the mind of man ; the workings 
 of his understanding, his emotions and sentiments, and his reasonings 
 upon them. To the whole group the term Psychology is often applied. 
 This branch of knowledge has been doomed to great reverses. At one 
 time, under the august name of Pure Philosophy, it was exalted to an 
 eminence towering above all other sciences. Many of the ancient 
 philosophers carefully separated their Science from any kind of know- 
 ledge susceptible of application to the uses of mankind : for it was an 
 indignity that it should be supposed to be capable of ministering to 
 any such vulgar purposes. Seneca speaks very disparagingly of 
 transparent windows, and an apparatus for diffusing heat through 
 buildings ; at least, he thinks them all very well in their proper place, 
 but a high-flown philosopher has no concern with such utilitarian 
 inventions. His care is not to tend and comfort the body, but to train 
 and elevate the soul, and so forth. On the other hand, from the bar- 
 renness of some of the sciences in this division, the whole group, under 
 the general head of Metaphysics, has often in later times been unduly 
 depreciated. The thoughts have been stigmatized as mystical, and the 
 language as jargon. It has been said to be characterized by everlasting 
 rotation and no progression. If the investigation of such questions 
 as, whether there is any proof of the existence of an external world ; 
 whether we are impelled to action by fate or free will ; whether pain 
 is an evil ; whether it is possible to be certain about anything ; if such 
 inquiries constituted the main business of the sciences under this 
 department, we might conscientiously dismiss them with the passing 
 remark that they could serve no good purpose beyond that of sharpening 
 controversial wits. But such is not the case. In analysing the opera- 
 tions of the intellect into certain combinations or series of thoughts, to 
 which are affixed the term faculties by one set of philosophers, and 
 mental states or feelings by another, you acquire useful knowledge, 
 you arrange and classify phenomena so that you can better study them 
 separately. To draw a clear distinction between intellectual states and 
 those which are purely emotional, and between these and propensities,
 
 THE SPECULATIVE SCIENCES. 109 
 
 is something gained ; and at all events, it is very important as a step 
 towards the ascertainment of the functions of particular portions of 
 the nervous system. To shew the connections between language and 
 elementary functions of the mind, and their reciprocal influence, is, to 
 say the least, a subject of intense interest ; and it has very extensive 
 bearings on the origin and affinities of languages, and correspondently 
 of tribes and races. To be satisfied on this point, let any one observe 
 the use made of vast philological as well as psychological knowledge 
 in Dr. Prichard's classical work, entitled " Researches into the Physical 
 History of Man." The enjoyment derived from Poetry and the Fine 
 Arts is greatly enhanced by a knowledge of the principles, by virtue 
 of which the feelings of beauty and sublimity are excited in our 
 minds. If we take the whole group into consideration, I doubt if 
 their value can be over-estimated, as tending to discipline and invigo- 
 rate the mind by means of hardy and complicated exercises, and to 
 habituate it to exactness of thought and to minute attention to pro- 
 prieties of language. The ulterior beneficial uses in connection with 
 education, both moral and intellectual, are too obvious to be dwelt 
 upon. And they have this advantage over the Physical Sciences, 
 that their materials are always with us. The outer world may be 
 veiled from our sight ; but by turning inwards the mental eye, we 
 discern in the phenomena of consciousness an abundance of objects for 
 interesting, nay, engrossing occupation. But, lastly, whether these 
 several benefits be considered worthy of attention or not, it cannot be 
 denied that the Speculative Sciences form the subject-matter of some 
 of the finest and most influential writings ever given to the world. 
 Need I, in conclusion, invoke the names of Plato and Aristotle, Cicero 
 and Seneca, Leibnitz and Des Cartes, Hobbes and Malebranche, Lock 
 and Berkeley and Kant, and in our own times, Stewart and Brown, 
 and Cousin and John Stuart Mill ? 
 
 But I must hasten to the fourth department of knowledge, or 
 Literature. I need not again enumerate the species of knowledge 
 arranged under this head. And it is almost superfluous to make any 
 remarks upon it, excepting by way of completing this hasty and general 
 sketch. The humanizing effect of letters has been the theme of writers 
 in all times, and to expatiate upon it duly would occupy many lectures. 
 But the most striking characteristic of this division of knowledge is, I 
 think, its power of introducing us to an intimate acquaintance and 
 sympathy with the minds and feelings of other men ; not but that this 
 effect, in a measure, belongs to some of the other divisions, but it-
 
 110 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 pre-eminently belongs to that which is under our present consideration. 
 We look at nature as they looked at it, we feel as they felt when the 
 various great events in the world's history, and changes in the forms 
 of society, passed before them; and it enlarges and yet softens the 
 mind to know how in all ages and climes and peoples, there have been 
 men of like passions and thoughts and sentiments with our own. "We 
 are so familiar with the presence of Booh, that we are liable to forget- 
 fulness of how much we owe them. Let no one tempt you to think 
 disparagingly of books, or scare you with the notion of being turned 
 into book- worms. It is very fine to say, " Be your own book ;" or, 
 " Go read the book of Nature ; use your own eyes and mind, in books 
 you see only the reflection of other men's eyes and minds." But this 
 is one of the great points of value in books, for in them you have 
 matter instinct, informed, impregnated with immortal thought ! There 
 may be bad books, as well as bad specimens of any other products of 
 human labour ; and there may be repugnant objects in nature itself. 
 Tet we do not turn away from Natural History, because there are such 
 things as nettles and vipers. But forgive me for having in the faintest 
 way hinted at the possibility that the study of books could require an 
 apology. Rather let me congratulate you on the vast facilities afforded 
 in the present day, not only for reading, but also for possessing books, 
 by means of the various enterprising schemes for the diffusion of cheap 
 Literature. In the compass of the smallest chamber you may be 
 independent of the rest of the world, at least for mental gratification. 
 There you may travel over the globe, and see more men and manners 
 than even the long-wandering Ulysses, and without his many sorrows. 
 And there you may listen to all varieties of moving recitals of the fates 
 of families and destinies of empires : 
 
 " Presenting Thebes and Pelops' line, 
 And the tale of Troy divine." 
 
 And you will have glimpses of what was passing in the minds of the 
 fathers of our race, when the world was in the freshness of its spring, 
 when in their beautiful mythologies they speculated on the origin 
 of things around them, constructing their simple theories of the 
 ever-marvellous phenomena of the universe. And you follow the 
 career of great men and heroes in their indomitable struggles with 
 hard and evil destiny ; and you look over memorable battle-fields, 
 Marathon, Pharsalia, Naseby, and Waterloo, and your sight may 
 pierce through the cloud and confusion, and discern what all that 
 urmoil with its deadly rage is tending to, better than those who are
 
 LITERATURE. Ill 
 
 periling their lives in it. And you wander about old cities, and they 
 are again populous and stirring with "the hum, the din, the shock of 
 men ;" the strife, the business, the pleasure. Yes, the Past is no 
 longer past ; the dead ages rise again, and sweep before you. not pale 
 and ghost-like, but in all the actions and characteristics of their many- 
 coloured life ! And you are taken to other worlds, and introduced to 
 other beings, created by the imagination of poets ; and you find your 
 dearest and most familiar emotions, some that date almost from your 
 cradles, and others that have grown with your growth, the manliest 
 and the tenderest, all attuned to lyric strains which revive those 
 feelings in your hearts, not only with all their native force, but also 
 associated with those sentiments of the sublime and the beautiful, over 
 which the minds of bards have such unbounded sway. But it is vain 
 to think of enumerating the pleasures attendant on the pursuit of 
 Literature. We can but observe, that they force us to consider the 
 inestimable value of that gift to man, which in importance yields only 
 to the gift of speech. "Well might a recent writer thus apostrophize 
 the letters of Cadmus: "0 eldest-born, and most wonderful of all 
 miraculous inventions ! Keys to the riches of the universal mind of 
 man ! Symbols of ineffable power ! Types of eternal beauty ! Seals 
 that bear the impress of all that is potent and touching in thought and 
 feeling ! In vain do we search in the inanimate world for figures to 
 represent your manifold attributes ! Bather let us impersonate you as 
 angels of light and love, walking over this lower world, and plentifully 
 scattering the gems of wisdom, and the never-fading flowers of elo- 
 quence aud poetry. You pass from land to land, traversing seas and 
 antient rivers, and telling the dwellers on their shores stories of 
 unctying interest. And how clear and distinct are your tones ! The 
 hieroglyphs of Egypt do but mumble, and mutter, in sounds as mystical 
 -as the doctrines they half hide and half reveal. The picture-writing 
 of Mexico doth but half gesticulate like a half-reasoning savage. But 
 ye, children of Cadmus ! your voices are silvery and articulate, and 
 
 ' Musical as is Apollo's lute.' 
 
 By you 
 
 ' The fountains of divine philosophy 
 Fly not our thirsting lips, and all of great 
 Or good or lovely, which the sacred past 
 In truth or fable consecrates, we feel 
 And know.'
 
 112 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 And the words ye utter are spells to neutralize absence and annul even 
 death. Without you, the bygone glory and beauty of the world would 
 be lost for ever. Men might stand on the Acropolis and the Capitol, 
 without thinking of Pericles and Csesar ; and in the woods of Vaucluse 
 no shade of Laura would hover over the scene. "Without you the dead 
 would be dead indeed. But you have caught the words from their 
 eloquent lips, and remembered their fair faces, and dived into their deep 
 thoughts, and treasured up their sweet songs ; and as for their mighty 
 deeds, you have emblazoned them in colours which the hand of Time, 
 that dulls and darkens all else, seems ever to brighten and glorify." 
 
 But from this ardent apostrophe, we must turn to remind you that 
 the various kinds of knowledge of which we have been speaking 
 belong to Human Knowledge. I have already noticed, and this is not 
 the place to dwell upon, divine knowledge, or the knowledge of divine 
 things. But I trust we all regard this as the culminating point of 
 knowledge, being assured that, as it tells of Him who is the Cause and 
 Source of all knowledge, and of our relations to Him, and also of that 
 life to which the present is but a brief prologue, it must infinitely 
 transcend all other knowledge. 
 
 I shall now draw this Address to a close, by offering a very few 
 remarks on the spirit which should animate us in seeking knowledge. 
 The chief motive, it must be allowed, should be the desire of better 
 performing our several duties. Whatever be our station in life, from 
 the lowest to the highest, there are certain duties to which we are 
 especially called; certain engagements which we have expressly or 
 virtually undertaken ; and, therefore, be we craftsmen or statesmen,. 
 have we trades or professions, are we gentlemen or noblemen, we 
 have duties to do, and we are bound to strive after the knowledge 
 which will qualify us for the most efficient discharge of them. 
 
 " To know 
 
 That which before us lies in daily life 
 Is the prime wisdom. What is more, is fume, 
 Or emptiness, or fond impertinence, 
 And renders us in things that most concern 
 Unpractised, unprepared, and still to seek." 
 
 In the second place, we must cultivate knowledge in a spirit of 
 humility and modesty. The learning that puffeth up is false and vain,
 
 THE ESSENCE OF TRUE KNOWLEDGE. 113 
 
 and scanty -withal. He \vho knows most, knows best how much 
 remains to be known. He who looks at the realm of knowledge after 
 the first few steps of his ascent up an eminence, sees what he thinks 
 may be easily traversed or compassed, but the higher he ascends, the 
 wider does the horizon become, and he perceives but too plainly that 
 his greatest acquisition can be but a very small part of that which he 
 surveys. Men of the strongest and most richly informed minds have 
 ever been observed to be the most deferential to their fellow-men, and 
 the most reverent. With their largeness of comprehension, they see 
 that there are certain departments of knowledge which must, from the 
 nature of things, be held in more complete possession by others ; and in 
 their relation to Infinite Power and Wisdom, they have felt overwhelmed 
 with a sense of their utter insignificance. 
 
 In connection with this topic, I would venture to warn you, espe- 
 pecially, against falling into Pedantry. This term used to be applied 
 specifically to persons who, piquing themselves on their scholarship in 
 the dead languages, were everlastingly obtruding their learning on all 
 companies and at all seasons, not merely from the desire of setting 
 forth their own individual acquirements, but also from an exaggerated 
 estimate of that species of knowledge. But Pedantry is not confined 
 to scholars. It belongs no less to men of science and to professional 
 men ; to all, in fact, who, having been exclusive students in one 
 department of information, are therefore (like the Chinese, who have 
 never passed the boundaries of their country) unable to conceive the 
 existence of anything worthy of attention beyond their own domain. 
 
 Although, as we have seen, the great purpose in acquiring know- 
 ledge is that of fitting us for our several duties, I must urge you to 
 love it for its own sake ; love it as one of the best gifts of Grod ; love 
 it as the object which, in the pre-established harmony of the universe, 
 stands in correlation to a susceptibility innate in your minds ; love it as 
 you love the friend of your bosom, not because that object of your 
 affection can afford you this or that advantage, or gratification ; but 
 because it is the object of your affection, and is in itself, and for itself, 
 lovely. 
 
 In this imperfect discourse, I have had no thought of enforcing on 
 yoiir minds the claims of knowledge, for your recognition of them is 
 proved by your support of this useful institution. Permit me, however, 
 before I conclude, to remind the younger members of the Athenaeum, 
 that even Knowledge is not the best of all things ; that it can but 
 
 i
 
 114 KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 occupy the second place in relation to Moral Excellence. Knowledge 
 is good, but Virtue is better. The youthful mind, fascinated by the 
 attractions that irradiate the form of Knowledge, and ambitious with 
 a generous ardour of surmounting the difficulties which prevent access 
 to her favours, is but too prone to look with indifference at the plainer 
 and severer form that stands above the other. But be assured, my 
 young friends, that as you advance in life (unless, which God forbid ! 
 your hearts should by intercourse with the world become hardened 
 or perverted), you will set a higher and higher value on Probity and 
 Benevolence, and you will adopt the sentiment of the poet, that 
 " An honest man's the noblest work of God." 
 
 The most intellectual of the Holy Apostles, declared that " Though he 
 understood all mysteries and all knowledge," yet, "if he had not 
 charity [which is the type of all virtue], he was nothing." " Know- 
 ledge," he adds, "may vanish away, but charity never faileth." 
 
 " Mortals that would follow me, 
 Love Virtue, she alone is free ; 
 She can teach ye how to climb 
 Higher than the sphery chime ; 
 Or if Virtue feeble were, 
 Heaven itself would stoop to her," 
 
 COMUS. 
 
 But, after all, virtue is not easily separable from knowledge. Wisdom 
 is knowledge applicable to practice, and knowledge is implied in the 
 exercise of the highest virtues, and is subsidiary to them. He who 
 has the amplest knowledge has the largest opportunities of glorifying 
 his Maker, and doing good to his fellow-creatures. " The learned 
 man," says Bacon, " doth ever intermix the correction and amendment 
 of his mind with the use and employment thereof. Nay, farther, in 
 general and in sum, certain it is that veritas and bonttas differ but as 
 the seal and print ; for truth prints goodness ; and they be the clouds 
 of error which descend in the storms of passions and perturbations." 
 
 Lastly, reverently bear in mind what is the source of all know- 
 ledge, and what is its most exalted form. The inspired writer of the 
 oldest and one of the grandest of poems, the first propounding, and 
 the fullest solution of, those world-eld enigmas, human life and 
 human destiny, makes one of his interlocutors exclaim, " Where 
 shall Wisdom be found, and where is the place of Understanding?" 
 And then he tells how the price of it is abpve " the gold of Ophir,
 
 TRUE WISDOM. 115 
 
 and the precious onyx, and the sapphire," and not to be exchanged 
 "for jewels of fine gold;" and that its source "is hidden from the 
 eyes of all living ;" and then with sublime simplicity, he declares that 
 "God understandeth the way thereof, and he knoweth the place 
 thereof;" and that he found it in the midst of the mightiest works of 
 creation. " For He looketh to the ends of the earth, and seeth under 
 the whole Heavens ; to make the weight for the winds ; and He 
 weigheth the waters by measure. When He made a decree for the 
 rain, and a way for the lightning of the thunder ; then did He see it 
 and declare it ; He prepared it, yea, and searched it out. And unto 
 man He said, ' Behold, the fear of the Lord that is wisdom ; and to depart 
 from evil that is understanding.' "
 
 ON THE 
 LIFE, WRITINGS AND CHARACTER 
 
 OP THE LATE 
 
 JAMES COWLES PRICHARD, 
 
 M.D., F.R.S., ETC., ETC. 
 
 This Memoir was read in March, 1849, at the Meeting of 
 the Bath and Bristol Branch of the Provincial Medical 
 and Surgical Association. [ED.] 
 
 R. Prichard was born at Boss, Herefordshire, in the year 1786. 
 His education was altogether private. His father, a man of a 
 highly cultivated and refined mind, superintended it with the 
 help of different masters or tutors. A strong inclination to study 
 very soon manifested itself. It was often requisite to compel him to 
 leave his books in order that he might have needful recreation and 
 exercise ; yet when he joined his companions in the play-ground he 
 entered into their sports with as much animation as the idlest and 
 gayest. Some of his early friends even avow that their most vivid 
 recollections of the young Prichard have reference to his love of fun. 
 The studies to which he most eagerly addicted himself were History 
 and Languages. For acquiring the latter he had a remarkable 
 aptitude. It was a great pleasure to him when he visited Bristol to 
 talk with foreigners, who arrived at that port, in their own tongues. 
 On one occasion he accosted a Greek sailor in Romaic, and the man 
 was so delighted that he caught the boy-linguist in his arms and kissed 
 him heartily.
 
 HIS PROFESSIONAL CAREER. 117 
 
 When the choice of a profession became necessary he selected that 
 of Medicine, not from any bias towards it, but because it presented no 
 difficulties to him as a member of the Society of Friends, and at the 
 same time admitted of his pursuing his favourite studies. He was 
 first placed with Dr. Pole, of Bristol, who had a considerable reputa- 
 tion for skill in anatomical preparations. 
 
 From Bristol he went to Staines, in order to learn Medical 
 Pharmacy under Dr. Pope and Mr. Tothill. 
 
 In due time he repaired to London, and devoted himself to the 
 study of Anatomy, in the school attached to St. Thomas's Hospital. 
 He afterwards removed to Edinburgh, where he spent three years of 
 hard study. Amongst his fellow-students the most distinguished were 
 Arnould, Estlin, and Hancock, and they continued to be his intimate 
 friends for the remainder of his life. After his graduation in Edin- 
 burgh (1809), he spent a few terms in Cambridge, having become a 
 member of Trinity College. In the following year he joined the 
 Communion of the Church of England, and having determined to pass 
 some time at Oxford, he entered at St. John's College ; but, not 
 finding the society congenial, he took his name off the books and 
 entered as a Gentleman Commoner, at Trinity. The time that he 
 remained at Oxford must have been very short, for in 1810 he began 
 his career in Bristol. He was appointed __ Physician to St. Peter's 
 Hospital, about the year 1812, an appointment more memorable than 
 any other that he subsequently held, because this Institution contained 
 a class of patients whose maladies gave an impulse to his prosecution 
 of a particular department of Pathology with which his name will 
 ever be associated. His work on Nervous Diseases, as well as a later 
 one on Insanity, was founded on the^ experience which he had gained 
 in the wards devoted to insane patients in St. Peter's Hospital. In 
 1813 he published the first edition of his " Researches into the Physical 
 History of Man." In 1816 he was elected Physician to the Bristol 
 Infirmary. To his duties in that magnificent institution he devoted 
 himself with a zeal worthy of the office, and reaped from its fertile 
 field a vast amount of practical knowledge. He took an active part 
 in the foundation of the Bristol Literary and Philosophical Institution ; 
 he frequently delivered lectures, and read papers at the meetings of 
 the Philosophical Society, and was appointed one of its Pro-Directors. 
 
 It was wonderful how much he contrived to accomplish, even while 
 engaged in his large private practice. This was in part owing to his
 
 118 LIFE OF DR. PRICHARD. 
 
 power and habit of employing small fragments of his time. His 
 knowledge was so completely under his command, and his faculties 
 were in such constant exercise, that he could immediately return to an 
 argument or a train of thought, undistracted by any recent interrup- 
 tion. He made time also by his habit of early rising, which gave him 
 three or four hours before the business of the day commenced. 
 Whatever he undertook, he devoted the whole energy of his mind to 
 its completion. He used to say that he experienced what John Wesley 
 used to feel, when a student at Oxford, " the lust of finishing." 
 
 In 1845 he retired to Town, having been appointed Her Majesty's 
 Commissioner in Lunacy ; an honourable and comparatively lucrative 
 appointment ; at least, lucrative in comparison with most medical 
 appointments, for no profession is so destitute as our own of offices of 
 high emolument. No one better deserved a public reward, not only 
 for his exertions in behalf of science in general, but also and especially 
 for his contributions to the science and practice of that particular 
 department of medicine. 
 
 Honours, such as belong to men of science, fell thick upon him. 
 He became a Fellow of the Royal Society. He was elected Corres- 
 ponding Member of the National Institute of France, and of the 
 French Academy of Medicine. Besides these distinctions he received 
 diplomas of honorary membership from all the chief learned societies 
 on the continent and in America. His work on Egyptian Mythology, 
 and that on Nervous Diseases, had the honour of being translated 
 into German. The people who speak that language were, I am afraid, 
 more early alive to the great merit of his works, and even more 
 interested in them, than his own countrymen. In 1 8 35 the University of 
 Oxford determined on conferring upon Dr. Prichard the degree of 
 Doctor of Medicine by diploma, the very highest honour which she 
 has the power of bestowing, and which has been given at very long 
 intervals only, and only to pre-eminent merit. In that year the 
 Provincial Medical and Surgical Association held its anniversary in 
 Oxford, under the presidency of the accomplished Eegius Professor of 
 Medicine. Dr. Kidd. Dr. Prichard had been appointed to deliver the 
 Annual Address, and the day of the meeting was happily selected for 
 the presentation of the diploma, the University deputing the President 
 to hand it to him whom she thus delighted to honour. Those who 
 know, as I do, the natural eloquence and classical refinement of Dr. 
 Kidd, will imagine how wisely the University had chosen her repre-
 
 HIS "PHYSICAL HISTORY OF MANKIND." 119 
 
 sentative. The scene was one that could not be easily forgotten by 
 those who witnessed it. Under the august dome of the Library, 
 built by the munificence of a physician of other days (Dr. Eadcliffe), 
 some of the most eminent members of the profession, from the 
 metropolis and the provinces, were assembled. Dr. Prichard appeared 
 rather pained than elated by all the nattering notice that fell upon 
 him, and was obviously relieved to turn attention from topics so 
 personal to him by reading his Retrospective Address. 
 
 In a life like Prichard' s the most remarkable events are his works. 
 These I shall presently enumerate. It only remains for me in the 
 present department of my subject to relate that he was in full 
 mental vigour when overtaken by his last illness. This was of com- 
 paratively short duration. It was apparently occasioned by fatigue 
 ^nd exposure during the performance of his public duties. He fell ill 
 at Salisbxiry, but he was removed to his home, Woburn Place, Russell 
 Square, London. The disease baffled all the efforts of his medical 
 friends, and after great suffering, he died on the 23rd of December, 
 1848. 
 
 The work by which Dr. Prichard' s name is best known to the world 
 is that with which he commenced his scientific career, and which, ever 
 improving under the continued consideration which he gave it, and 
 ever deriving augmentations from the additions which he was per- 
 petually making to his stores of knowledge, was the companion of the 
 rest of his life. Works which derive their subject-matter from the 
 world of thought only, when once completed are rarely added to. 
 Any subsequent processes they undergo are those of finish and 
 elaboration. But those which take their theme from the book of 
 nature are not easily ended. Farther study of that book only brings 
 more and more matter for extract and interpretation. 
 
 The Physical History of Mankind, when born into the world, was 
 an Inaugural Dissertation of 150 pages, which was a very unusual 
 length for an Edinburgh Thesis, the average of such compositions 
 varying from 20 to 30 pages. It was entitled "De Humani Generis 
 Varietate." In 1813 it was expanded into a goodly octavo volume, 
 and appeared in an English garb under the title, " Researches into the 
 Physical History of Man." A second edition in 1826 appeared in two 
 volumes, illustrated with plates. The first volume of a third edition 
 published in 1836. This edition extended over eleven years, the
 
 120 LIFE OF DR. PKICHARD. 
 
 fifth, and last volume having been published in 1847. While it is 
 highly instructive to survey the gradual development of this pro- 
 duction, growing with the growth of the author's mind and knowledge, 
 it is no less interesting to trace the germinal nucleus, the generative 
 idea in the original Thesis. 
 
 When Dr. Prichard entered upon the study of the Natural History 
 of Man, it was an almost uncultivated field. Camper had made an 
 attempt at classifying the human races according to the facial angle, 
 having found that in the European it averaged 80, in the Kalmuck 
 75, and in the Negro 70 only. But his views were founded on a 
 very narrow induction, for his collection of skulls was very small. 
 Their inaccuracy in other respects, and especially the disregard of the 
 difference between the infantine and adult skull, has been particularly 
 pointed out by Professor Owen. 
 
 That Blumenbach was the real founder of Ethnology Dr. Prichard 
 repeatedly announced ; although his own researches had commenced 
 before the work of the illustrious German had come into his hands. 
 Blumenbach, having examined a very large number of skulls, divided 
 the prevalent forms of the human head into five departments, which 
 he designated, not according to the form, but by the names of the 
 races to which they belonged, or of the regions of the world whence 
 these races were supposed to have originated. They were the 
 Caucasian, Mongolian, American, Ethiopian, and Malayan ; a distri- 
 bution pronounced by Doctor Prichard to have been complete at that 
 period of Ethnographical knowledge. This principle of classification, 
 if now adopted, would require us to enumerate many additional 
 varieties in the shape of the cranium, and to constitute correspondingly 
 additional human races. 
 
 If we except, then, what had been done so slightly by Camper, and 
 more elaborately and scientifically by Blumenbach ; and if we also 
 pass over, as we may very easily do, the vague a priori speculations of 
 Sir W. Jones and Lord Kaimes (the former arguing for one species 
 because one pair could by calculation be proved more than sufficient 
 for peopling the earth, the latter presuming that Providence would not 
 allow so many fair and fertile regions to wait for inhabitants by the 
 slow process of dispersion, but that autochthones must have been ab 
 origine assigned to them) ; if we except these, the ground which under 
 Dr. Prichard's labours became so fruitful of interesting observation 
 and inference, was when he entered upon it, unknown and sterile.
 
 HIS THEORY OF SPECIES. 121 
 
 Dr. Prichard first set himself to inquire whether the genus Man 
 contains more than one species. He carefully examined the charac- 
 teristics of different tribes as to colour the albino, the yellow, the 
 tawney, the red, and the black : as to diversity of form, whether as to 
 physiognomy, cranial configuration, or peculiarities in other parts of 
 the skeleton ; diversities of stature, as in Patagonians and Greenlanders ; 
 and having compared their diversities with known tendencies to varia- 
 tion in the inferior species of animals, he arrived at the conclusion 
 that they are strictly analogous phenomena, " depending on a principle 
 of natural deviation, and, as such, furnishing no specific distinction." 
 The diversities of figure, considered by some to be an insuperable 
 argument in favour of distinctness of specific origin, were found to be 
 rather less permanent in mankind than those of colour, " and none of 
 them so general in any race of men that it is not in many examples 
 wanting." (1st Edition, page 85.) But though this conclusion was 
 arrived at, it might still be argued that original stocks of the same 
 species might have arisen in different parts of the world. To meet 
 this view he inquired into the laws which govern the distribution of 
 some of the inferior species (Mammalia), and found that every existing 
 species may be traced with probability to a certain point originally its 
 own abode, and that few or no species have been found in countries 
 separated from their primary seats by barriers which their locomotive 
 powers and peculiar structure do not enable them to surmount. 
 
 " On the whole, it appears that it has not been the scheme of nature 
 to cover distant parts of the earth with many animals of every kind at 
 once ; but that a single stock of each species was first produced, which 
 was left to extend itself according as facilities of migration lay open to 
 it, or to find a passage by various accidents into countries removed at 
 greater or less distances from the original point of propagation." (1st 
 Edition, page 145.) 
 
 He then proceeds to consider the migrations of man, and whether 
 the facts prevent our applying the general inference drawn above to 
 the particular instance of our own species, and he finds in them 
 nothing irreconcilable with such a view. 
 
 The next inquiry he made was into the causes of the diversities in 
 the human race. Climate has some influence, but civilization more. 
 Varieties spring up more readily in temperate climates. One con- 
 clusion at which Dr. Prichard arrived in connection with this subject, 
 and which has been the subject of more discussion among the
 
 122 LIFE OF DR. PRICHARD. 
 
 uninformed than any other, is the transmutation from the Negro to 
 the European ; together with the announcement of his opinion that the 
 original human stock probably belonged to the former race. The 
 arguments adduced in support of this idea were as follows : (1.) The 
 analogy of lower species in which changes of colour are from dark to 
 lighter hues. The lighter colours of domestic animals are the effects 
 of cultivation. (2.) We have examples of light varieties appearing 
 among the negro races, but not of the reverse. (3.) The dark races 
 appear by their organization better adapted to the wild or natural state 
 of life. Witness the easy parturition in the female, and the high 
 development of the senses of smell, taste and hearing. (4.) All 
 nations that have never emerged from the savage state are negroes, or 
 very similar to negroes. 
 
 The next department of the inquiry carries him deeply into the 
 physical history of the most remarkable races, which I cannot, of 
 course, follow ; but I may notice that with wonderful extent and 
 minuteness of erudition he endeavours to prove a common origin of 
 the ancient Indians and Egyptians from their mythologies, theogonies, 
 and the physical character of the people respectively, and thus to 
 support the previous inference that the most ancient nations of which 
 any record exists were negroes. An investigation of the origin of the 
 European races, conducted with no less learning and sagacity, led him 
 to the recognition of an eastern origin, or connection by affiliation with 
 the Asiatics. 
 
 Such is a faint outline of the original form of the great work by 
 which Dr. Prichard's name will go down to posterity. Many were the 
 modifications which it underwent, not only by expansion and addition, 
 but also by withdrawal and absolute mutation. Topics which formed 
 rather prominent members of the original organism were in the pro- 
 cess of development dwarfed down to a proportion which anatomists 
 call rudimentary. Such is the opinion once so strongly and broadly 
 stated as to the derivation of races from an original negro stock. 
 
 The second edition appeared in 1826, that is, after the lapse of 
 thirteen years. It was enlarged to fully double the limits of the first, 
 and entirely re-written. A more ample space was given at the begin- 
 ning to the preliminary inquiry, as to the laws which govern the 
 distribution of organized beings in general. This investigation, in the 
 first edition, had been limited to the Mammalia. It now included the 
 whole range of organic nature, beginning with the species of plants
 
 HIS DISTINCTION OF RACES. 123 
 
 and extending to the whole of zoology. The conclusion arrived at in 
 his previous more limited investigations were abundantly strengthened, 
 and thus expressed : 
 
 "The inference to be collected from the facts at present known 
 seems to be as follows : The various tribes of organized beings were 
 originally placed by the Creator in certain regions for which they are 
 by their nature peculiarly adapted. Each species had only one 
 beginning in a single stock : probably a single pair, as Linnaeus 
 supposed, was first called into being in some particular spot, and their 
 progeny left to disperse themselves to as great a distance from the 
 original centre of their existence, as the locomotive powers bestowed 
 on each species, or its capability of bearing changes of climate and 
 other physical circumstances, may have enabled it to wander." 
 
 A new element in this edition was a discussion of the criteria of 
 identity or diversity of species, by reference to the principal laws of 
 the animal economy; e.g., (*) As to duration of life, times and fre- 
 quency of breeding, periods of utero-gestation, and number of progeny; 
 liability to the same diseases ; and possession of like faculties, instincts, 
 and habits. (~) To the laws of propagation of mixed breeds. ( 3 -) To 
 analogy to known variations. 
 
 The application of these tests to the human races was attended 
 with the same results as before. In the course of the inquiry into 
 analogous variations we meet with some new terminology, which was 
 an unquestionable improvement. (Indeed, I may remark, in passing, 
 that Dr. Prichard was particularly happy in his coinage of new 
 names). Thus the various black-haired races of man constitute the 
 Melanic variety. The Xanthous comprises brown, auburn, yellow, 
 flaxen, or red. The Albino is distinguished by white hair and red 
 eyes. Again, in considering the varieties in the form of skulls, he 
 classifies them according to the form of the vertex, as Meso-bregmate, 
 Steno-bregmate, and Platy-bregmate ; the type of the first being the 
 Caucasian, of the second the Negro, of the third the Mongole. 
 
 The bulk of the work consists of the Physical History of particular 
 races, evidencing most remarkably the continued labour that had been 
 epent on the investigation since the first edition. The Eaces are con- 
 sidered under six divisions, 1st. The African Eaces. 2nd. Those of 
 the Great Southern Ocean. 3rd. The Indo-European Nations. 4th. 
 The Western Asiatics, including the Syrian or Semitic nations, 
 Georgians, and Caucasians. 5th. The North and Eastern Asiatics,
 
 124 LIFE OF DR. PRICHAED. 
 
 including the Finnish, or Tschudish Nations, the Samoiedes, the 
 Mongoles, the Tartar or Turkish Eaces, the Tungusians, and the 
 Chinese. 6th. The Native Eaces of America. 
 
 The last book is devoted to a survey of the Causes which have 
 produced Varieties in the Human Species. In the course of it appears 
 an interesting discussion of facts relating to Hereditary Transmission 
 of peculiarities of structure, the bearings of which on the chief 
 question are obvious ; and he shows as a general law how none but 
 connate peculiarities descend to the offspring. "Whatever varieties 
 are produced in the race have their beginning in the original structure 
 of some particular ovum or germ, and not in any qualities super- 
 induced by external causes in the progress of its development. Yet 
 the influence of climate and modes of life, domestication, &c., is 
 unquestionable, and therefore, according to this view, it must be on 
 the ovum that this influence is exerted." 
 
 The argument in this part of the work appears to me less satis- 
 factory than in the other parts. For while it is strongly insisted on, 
 that acquired peculiarities are never transmitted to the offspring, yet 
 abundant proofs are given that great variations arise in races under 
 the influence of external circumstances of climate, and in adaptation 
 to them. No more striking instances can be adduced than those 
 which belong to the Indo-European family, which were originally of 
 one stock, yet which now present the black Hindoos of the Deccan 
 and the tribes of the Northmen of Europe. Dr. Prichard does not 
 profess to explain how it is that the children of parents who have 
 been exposed to changes of climate display peculiarities of structure 
 corresponding with the climate, but he is satisfied that it is not by any 
 change produced in the parents but by some qualities which they 
 impress on the progeny. When a peculiarity has once been generated, 
 that is, when it shows itself in an individual from birth, there is no 
 difficulty in understanding its propagation. Thus many varieties may 
 occur casually, as in the six fingered family, the porcupine family, and 
 the like. But the origination of varieties after transplantation to new 
 localities is too extensive and uniform, both in the human and in the 
 inferior species, to be explained in this manner. In the third edition 
 the same line of reasoning is not pursued : but both in that edition and 
 in the volume on the Natural History of Man, facts are adduced 
 proving the transmission of acquired properties from parents to off- 
 spring, more especially those of a psychical nature, as in the acquired
 
 HEREDITAEJT QUALITIES. 125 
 
 instincts of dogs. After some consideration of the whole subject, the 
 following appear to me to be the most probable conclusions. In all 
 healthy individuals of a species the elements of the varieties of that 
 species exist ; some actually developed, others only potentially present. 
 External circumstances are adequate or even necessary to their 
 development, but they can operate only through successive genera- 
 tions. The principal facts adduced against the hereditary transmission 
 of acquired peculiarities are those having reference to mutilations, 
 losses of members, &c. These cases are altogether different from those 
 in which a change has taken place in the colour of the skin under the 
 influence of climate ; for this change is not effected by subtraction of 
 parts, but by increased action in a particular portion of the cutaneous 
 organism. Now the offspring represents the properties and ten- 
 dencies in the organization of the parents at the time of conception. 
 Abundant instances in proof of this remark might be derived from 
 pathology. The progeny of parents embrowned during a tropical 
 residence, it is true, may be born quite fair, and yet with a liability in 
 the skin to be influenced by climate in like manner with the parents, 
 and to a greater degree. The next generation will inherit a yet 
 stronger liability ; but many centuries may need to pass before the 
 structural change becomes so great as to be obvious at the time of 
 birth. When the structural variety has been produced, it may require 
 at least an equal length of time for external alterations to produce a 
 return to the original type. 
 
 The work concludes with the consideration of the diversity and 
 origin of Languages, an investigation which proves highly favourable 
 to the inference drawn from other lines of argument, that the races of 
 men have descended from a single pair. 
 
 The scientific reputation of Dr. Prichard, which had been gradually 
 increasing from the time of the first edition of this work, as well as 
 from his book on the Egyptian Mythology, may be said to have now 
 become universal. Among the learned of France and Germany he 
 took the highest rank. 
 
 The last edition, as I have said, commenced in 1836, and was issued 
 in single volumes, which appeared at intervals during eleven years. 
 The actual amount of matter was treble what had constituted the 
 second edition, and the whole was again re-cast and re-written. 
 
 The first volume is entirely devoted to the consideration of the two 
 questions; 1st, Whether each species in the animal and vegetable
 
 126 LIFE OF DR. PRICE ARD. 
 
 world exists only as the progeny of one race, or has sprung originally 
 from several different sources. 2nd, Whether the various races of 
 men are of one or several species. In pursuance of this inquiry, ana- 
 logically conducted, that is, by comparing different tribes as to their 
 anatomical and physical characters, the author introduced matter of a 
 highly interesting nature under the head of Psychological Characters. 
 
 He showed that no characters are more primordial and none more 
 permanently transmitted than instincts, feelings, propensities, and 
 habitudes of action. In trying the different races of man by this- 
 criterion, he found that there were none in which the characters 
 belonging to the species are wanting. However degraded the castes, 
 whether Bushmen of Africa, Australian savages, or Lappes of northern 
 Europe, still we find in them the moral and social attributes which 
 distinguish humanity. Not only is there no tribe wanting in the use 
 of speech, and none in which we do not find traces of those necessary 
 arts of life which consist in the use of fire, of artificial clothing, of 
 arms, and the art of domesticating animals ; but also it has been 
 ascertained that all tribes give evidence of the possession of sentiments, 
 feelings, sympathies, and internal consciousness, with resulting habi- 
 tudes of life and actions, which, more than any outward or physical 
 character, whether of skull or of skeleton, of complexion or of hair, 
 give the stamp of human likeness 
 
 The following passage affords a striking view of the community 
 of character in different races as to one most important law of thought 
 and feeling, and is at the same time a specimen of the author's masterly 
 style of writing. 
 
 " If we could divest ourselves of all previous impressions respecting 
 our nature and social state, and look at mankind and human actions 
 with the eyes of a natural historian, or as a zoologist observes the life 
 and manners of beavers or of termites, we should remark nothing 
 more striking in the habitudes of mankind, and in their manner of 
 existence in various parts of the world, than a reference which is 
 everywhere more or less distinctly perceptible to a state of existence 
 after death, and to the influence believed both by barbarous and 
 civilized nations to be exercised over their present condition and future 
 destiny by invisible agents, differing in attributes according to the 
 sentiments of different nations, but universally believed to exist. The 
 rites everywhere perfomed for the dead, the various ceremonies of 
 cremation, sepulture, embalming, mummifying, funereal processions,
 
 THE UNITY OF THE HUMAN KACE. 127 
 
 and pomps following the deceased, during thousands of successive 
 years in every part of the earth, innumerable tumuli scattered over 
 all the northern regions of the world, which are perhaps the only 
 memorials of races long extinct the morais, pyramids, and houses of 
 the dead, and the gigantic monuments of the Polynesians, the magni- 
 ficent pyramids of Egypt, and of Anahuac, the prayers and litanies 
 set up in behalf of the dead as well as of the living in the churches of 
 Christendom, in the mosques and pagodas of the East, as heretofore 
 in pagan temples, the power of sacerdotal or consecrated orders, who 
 have caused themselves to be looked upon as the interpreters of destiny, 
 and as mediators between the gods and men, sacred wars desolating 
 empires through zeal for some metaphysical dogma, toilsome pilgrim- 
 ages performed every year by thousands of white and black men, 
 through various regions of the earth, seeking atonement for guilt at 
 the tombs of prophets and holy persons, all these, and a number of 
 similar phenomena in the history of all nations, barbarous and civilized, 
 would lead us to suppose that all mankind sympathize in deeply im- 
 pressed feelings and sentiments, which are as mysterious in their nature 
 as in their origin. These are among the most striking and remarkable 
 of the psychical phenomena, if we may so apply the expression, which 
 are pecular to man ; and if they are to be traced among races of men 
 which differ physically from each other, it will follow that all mankind 
 partake of a common moral nature, and are, therefore, if we take into 
 account the law of diversity in psychical properties allotted to particular 
 species, proved, by an extensive observation of analogies in nature, 
 constitute a single tribe." (Vol. 1, p. 175-6.) 
 
 The Ethnography or Physical History of each of the different races 
 is prosecuted in the four succeeding volumes. The prodigious amount 
 of information is not more surprising than the skill with which the 
 vast mass of facts is made to bear on the solution of the great question. 
 In this department one is struck by the great accession of strength 
 derived from the comparison of languages.* 
 
 But while the " Researches " were undergoing their fullest and, 
 alas ! their final development, Dr. Prichard found time to produce a 
 
 * As I have noticed the change of terminology, as to the forms of the cranium, 
 in the 2nd edition, I ought to have stated that in the 3rd edition the names were 
 again changed to, 1. The Oval or Ooidal, which is the skull of the European and 
 western Asiatic nations. 2. The Prognathous, so called from the prominence of the 
 upper jaw, as in the negro of the Gold Coast. 3. The Pyramidal, or broad-faced 
 skull, of which form the Mongoles present a good specimen, and the Esquimaux an 
 exaggerated one.
 
 128 LIFE OF DR. PRICHARD. 
 
 volume on the Natural History of Man, containing an account of the 
 -different tribes, their peculiarities, and the causes of those peculiarities, 
 but in a more summary way than in the large work, to which he refers 
 for evidence of the positions which he lays down. In the preface he 
 -adverts to two opposite classes of critics, those who accuse him of 
 hesitation and reserve, or over caution, in his assertion of the great 
 principle of the unity of the human species, and those who, on the 
 other hand, allege against him an obstinate and intolerant adherence 
 to this view : and he was justified in laying claim to the probability 
 that he had pursued a just, middle, and philosophical course, from 
 the very opposite nature of those charges. 
 
 After surveying this work, one might say that it would have been 
 no mean result, had it been the single product of Dr. Prichard's life 
 and labours. But we shall see that he found time for many others, 
 some more or less cognate to it, others of a remote nature. 
 
 In 1819 he published his treatise on Egyptian Mythology, the main 
 object of which, in a historical point of view, was to disprove the 
 opinion entertained by Professor Murray, " that the religion and philo- 
 sophy, as well as the language and all the other possessions of the 
 Egyptian people, were peculiar to themselves, and entirely unconnected 
 with those which belong to other nations of antiquity ;" and conse- 
 quently, that the Egyptians were a race peculiar to Africa. He 
 endeavoured to prove the early connection between the Hindoos and 
 Egyptians, by their similarity of religious institutions, social castes, &c. 
 Whether this connection was by colonization or by origin from the 
 same stock he has discussed in the " Researches. " 
 
 Against the former supposition the historical and other difficulties 
 appear insuperable. And the latter conclusion, at first sight, seemed 
 almost impossible to be maintained, from the extreme diversity of the 
 Indian and Egyptian languages. Yet, on reading the discussion of 
 this subject, in the second volume of the " Eesearches," we find the 
 force of the difficulty breaking down under the powerful reasoning 
 brought to bear upon it from the profound philological resources of 
 the author's learning. He shows how much greater was the tendency 
 to diversification in the structure of languages in the earlier ages of 
 the world. He instances the diversity which had taken place in those 
 sister-langnages, the Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and Mseso-gothic, 
 though sprung from a common stock, and which diversity had taken 
 place as far back as fifteen centuries before the Christian era, and he
 
 HIS EGYPTIAN CHKONOLOGY. 129 
 
 argues that " the diversifying process, within nearly an equal period 
 of time, may hare given rise to differences even so great as those 
 which exist between the Semitic and Indian languages. That such 
 was the fact we have the historical proof above cited. But if so great 
 a diversity in language as this was really brought about, no difference 
 of human idioms will afford proof of original diversity of race, and 
 the Egyptians and Hindoos may have had common ancestors, from 
 whom they derived their characteristic traits of resemblance." After 
 this statement, it is very interesting to find that Dr. Prichard's saga- 
 cious reasonings have been confirmed by the latest researches ; and, 
 as Dr. Hodgkin has remarked, " from a quarter the least expected. 
 Recent investigations into the structure of the old Egyptian language, 
 revealed to us by the successful interpretation of the hiero-grammatic 
 writing, have demonstrated an early original connection between the 
 language of Egypt and the old Asiatic tongues. By this discovery the 
 Semitic barrier interposed between the Egyptian and the Asiatic races 
 is broken down, and a community of origin established which requires 
 the hypothesis neither of the immigration of sacerdotal colonies nor 
 of the doubtful navigation of the Erythraean Sea."* 
 
 A remarkable part of the work was the the analysis of the remains 
 of Egyptian Chronology. He showed that Manetho's Chronicle was 
 constructed, perhaps by mistake, from the combination into one whole 
 of many different records or tables of kings, which, though apparently 
 successive, can be shewn by internal evidence to contain repetitions of 
 the same series. 
 
 The Chevalier Bunsen, in his great work on Egypt, has done 
 justice to the value of Dr. Prichard's labours in this field of inquiry, 
 when he says that " simultaneously with the first steps in the progress 
 of modern hieroglyphical discovery (in 1823), Dr. Prichard, one of the 
 most acute and learned investigators of his time, had once more 
 vindicated the claims of Egypt to a primeval chronology, and suggested 
 a collation of the lists of Eratosthenes and Manetho, as the true 
 method of elucidating the earliest period. In the work on Egyptian 
 Chronology and Mythology he shows that the continually recurring 
 coincidences which they offer must represent a chronological canon, "f 
 
 * Abstract of a Memoir of Dr. Prichard, by Dr. Hodgkin, in the British arid 
 Foreign Medico-Chirurgical Review, April, 1849. 
 
 | Egypt's Place in Universal History. (Vol. 1, p. 242.) 
 K
 
 130 LIFE OF DR. PRICHARD. 
 
 Another work, bearing on the great question, was entitled " The 
 Eastern Origin of the Celtic Nations, proved by a comparison of their 
 dialects with the Sanskrit, Greek, Latin, and Teutonic Languages, 
 forming a supplement to Researches into the Physical Histoiy of 
 Mankind." Languages display four kinds of relations: 1. As to 
 vocabularies. If the communication between the nations was one of 
 close commercial intercourse or of conquest, the words in common will 
 be found to have reference to the new stock of ideas thus introduced. 
 Such is the influence of the Arabic on the idioms of the Persians and 
 Turks, and of the Latin upon some of the dialects of Europe. But if 
 the connection was of a more ancient and intimate nature, the cor- 
 respondence in the vocabularies will be found to involve words of the 
 most simple and apparently primitive class, expressive of simple ideas, 
 and universal objects. 2. There are languages with few words in 
 common, but having a remarkable analogy in grammatical construction. 
 Such are the polysynthetic idioms of the American tribes, and the 
 monosyllabic languages of the Chinese and Indo-Chinese. 3. Some 
 languages present both these characters of affinity, and are denomi- 
 nated by Dr. Prichard, cognate. 4. There are languages in which 
 neither of these connections can be found. Such languages are not 
 of the same family, and generally belong to nations remote from each 
 other in descent, and often in physical character. Dr. Prichard proved 
 that the Celtic nations spring from a common stock with the Indo- 
 European group from an elaborate comparison both of primitive 
 words and of grammatical structure. 
 
 The last work that I have to notice, of a purely scientific character, 
 is the " Review of the Doctrince of a Vital Principle." It is an 
 admirable specimen of physiological reasoning, and had it been duly 
 studied by many writers who have since treated of the subject-matter 
 of it, much needless writing, both in support and in refutation of a 
 hypothesis that had been already demolished, might have been saved. 
 
 The object of the work was to review the Hunterian doctrine of a 
 vital principle ; that is, of a subtile agent, somewhat analogous in its 
 nature to electricity, invisible, impalpable, and imponderable, mani- 
 festing itself only by its effects, controling and modifying mechanical 
 and chemical properties in a manner peculiar to itself, altering affinities, 
 disposing to new combinations, so as to effect the separation of a 
 variety of substances from the blood, evolving animal heat, presiding 
 over chymifaction, exciting processes of development, nutrition, and
 
 HIS " KEVIEW OF THE DOCTKINE OF A VITAL PRINCIPLE." 131 
 
 reparation, and preserving the fluidity of the blood. He first points 
 out that this doctrine is not a theory, because the actual existence of 
 the principle in question has never been proved ; for a theory requires 
 the alleged cause to be proved to be a fact in itself, before it is shewn 
 to stand in that relation to the phenomena assigned to it as effects. 
 The doctrine in question is only a hypothesis, inventing the principle 
 as a complete and the only means of interpreting certain phenomena. 
 In the examination to which Dr. Prichard subjects it, he considers first 
 the analogical arguments in its favour. (In this place I shall take the 
 liberty of making use of a review which I wrote many years ago.) 
 The hypothesis of a vital principle is allowed by its advocates not to 
 admit of direct evidence ; but they consider that collateral probabilities 
 are in its favour, and that it is adequate to all the explanation required 
 of it. An examination of the evidence put forth in support of these 
 positions occupies the principal portion of the author's dissertation. 
 
 " Among the analogies," says Dr. Prichard, " adduced in favour 
 of this doctrine, one has been already adverted to ; I mean, that of 
 electricity, or the operation of the electric or galvanic influence. It 
 must be confessed that this analogy is so vague and indefinite as to 
 afford scarcely a shadow of probable evidence. There is nothing in it 
 on which the mind can lay hold with a clear and distinct appre- 
 hension." 
 
 Another analogy, and even more remote than the former, has been 
 derived from the immaterial soul. The existence of this principle has 
 been conceded on inferential grounds only, and the believers in a vital 
 principle claim a similar allowance for their doctrine. They urge that 
 if a soul or immaterial entity is allowed, because it is necessary to 
 explain mental phenomena, the existence of a vital principle ought to 
 be conceded, because it is no less essential to the production of organic 
 phenomena. Dr. Prichard, however, shews that the two doctrines are 
 founded on premises that have no analogy whatever. Thus the 
 immateriality of the soul is argued from the utter diversity of mental 
 from material phenomena, from their being contemplated by internal 
 consciousness instead of external sensation, from their indivisibility as 
 contrasted with the infinite divisibility of matter, and from the 
 impossibility of resolving them into the component qualities of matter, 
 a process which may be executed on very physical substance. But 
 this kind of reasoning is perfectly inapplicable to the functions of an 
 organized body. "We are never made acquainted with these phenomena
 
 132 LIFE OF DK. PKICHAED. 
 
 as with those of mind, by consciousness, but by the same means as 
 reveal to us other physical objects, 
 
 "The whole sphere of agency ascribed to the vital principle is, 
 therefore, within the region of matter and its attributes ; and if its 
 existence is capable of proof, it must be on grounds totally different 
 from those on which we have proceeded with respect to the existence 
 and properties of a soul or immaterial being." 
 
 In the above very brief abstract of this part of the author's 
 argument, we have passed over a very masterly discussion of the 
 question of materialism, in the fifth section. "We beg particularly to 
 direct attention to his disposal of Dr. Priestley's well-known argu- 
 ment ; viz., that the phenomena of mind, and those of matter, belong 
 to the same substance, because the former are never seen but in 
 conjunction with the latter. Dr. Prichard's reply is as follows : 
 
 " The whole universe displays the most striking marks of the 
 existence and operation of mind or intellect, in a state separate from 
 organization, and under conditions which preclude all reference to 
 organization. ' The universal mind,' says a distinguished philosopher 
 (Dugald Stewart), ' though everywhere present, where matter exists, 
 though everywhere moving and arranging the parts of matter, appears- 
 to do so without being united with matter as is the case with visible- 
 created beings. There is, therefore, at least one being or substance 
 of that nature which we call mind, separate from organized body.'" 
 
 The answer is very ingenious, but does not appear to us to be- 
 completely conclusive. The manifestations of intelligence in the two 
 instances are of different kinds. Dr. Priestley seems to refer to the- 
 actual manifestation of thinking and feeling properties, not of their 
 effects merely; and to the non-appearance of such properties in action, 
 excepting when they are connected with organized matter. But the 
 manifestations of mind and intelligence in the works of creation are 
 such as are afforded by the results of the operation of mind on matter 
 and although it is highly improbable that the mind which acted upon 
 it was connected with organization, yet there is no evidence to the- 
 contrary derivable from these signs ; indeed they do not seem to us to 
 indicate either the one view or the other, "By the same reasoning, if, 
 on a desert island, a tool or a piece of machinery were discovered,, 
 which furnished evident marks of the operation of human contrivance, 
 there would be no intimation from this source alone, that the design- 
 ing mind was, or was not, connected with a brain and nerves ; the
 
 THE REFUTATION OF MATERIALISM. 133 
 
 iaiowledge that the human mind acts in concert with an appropriate 
 organization, would be the result of other kinds of experience. The 
 evidence, then, of the Divine mind, is contained in the effects of its 
 operations ; and we are ignorant whether any organization is, or has 
 been, made use of by this exalted principle. The evidence of human 
 or animal mind is also contained in its effects ; but we likewise know 
 that it never produces these results, except in co-operation with the 
 nervous system. 
 
 We may be wrong in this view, and it is suggested with diffidence ; 
 but even if it be correct, and the objection founded on a different view 
 of it, to Dr. Priestley's argument, be consequently weakened, there 
 still appear to us to be sufficient reasons for rejecting the conclusion of 
 the materialist. A certain collection of properties which we call mind, 
 is never presented to our observation, except in connection with a 
 collection of properties utterly dissimilar, which we designate organic 
 matter ; but it is not a legitimate inference from these premises, that 
 the connection is one of dependence, not of alliance only. It is true, 
 that when the organic phenomena are dissipated the others also disap- 
 pear ; but if the existence of the latter in other beings than ourselves 
 can only be made known to us through the medium of the former, as 
 by motion, speech, action, &c., how can we presume to say that the 
 thinking principle was dependent upon that medium, merely because 
 the latter was destroyed ? A man suddenly struck blind might, with 
 equally good logic, argue that, because he had always recognized the 
 existence of the sun in connection with his eyes, and because an 
 impairment of his visual organs had destroyed the perception of that 
 luminary, the existence of the latter was, therefore, dependent on the 
 former. This is not precisely Dr. Priestley's position ; but supposing 
 that we allow, that in consequence of mental properties being never 
 manifested, except in connection with those of organization, they must, 
 therefore, belong to the same entity or substance, what possible use 
 can be made of such a conclusion ? For what is an entity abstracted 
 from its properties ? Nothing : for nothing is the absence of proper- 
 ties. If materialists are satisfied with the possession of this conclusion, 
 we are well satisfied, for our own parts, to concede it to them ; and do 
 not care to prove that the two classes of properties belong to separate 
 entities, or nothings. This view will appear satisfactory only to those 
 who can discard from their minds the notion of there being necessarily 
 a, substratum of properties. We consider this substratum only as a
 
 134 LIFE OF DR. PRICHAKD. 
 
 term expressing the collection of certain properties, and have elsewhere 
 endeavoured to illustrate the subject by saying that " the prismatic 
 rays, incapable of independent existence, belong to the substance light, 
 which, in its turn, cannot exist without them ; and thus properties are 
 attached to substance, which is itself made up of those properties." 
 The difficulty in receiving this opinion is produced, in a great measure, 
 by the term, property, which expresses relation to something else. But 
 the anaylsis of properties shews them to be only expressions of various 
 kinds of experience, which are grouped in various relations, and 
 divided into two great classes, the former of which, we are told by 
 instinctive belief, are the result of a causation external to our own 
 identity, while the latter have their origin within ourselves ; the one 
 constituting what is called matter, the other what is called mind. The 
 two are thus felt or experienced to be independent of each other, and 
 no evidence can go higher. 
 
 After disputing the analogical evidence set up by the advocates of 
 a vital principle, the author proceeds to examine the other argument 
 adduced in its favour, to wit, that the functions of living beings can be 
 explained only by the hypothesis in question. We cannot follow the 
 refutation, as it would lead us into too many details. The result is, 
 that the doctrine is not only inadequate to the interpretation of the 
 facts, but also injurious to a philosophical inquiry into them, by 
 allowing us to stop short of an ultimate analysis of complex phenomena, 
 in the same manner as the old physiologists ceased to inquire further 
 into the process of digestion when they had stumbled upon a vis- 
 concoctrix. 
 
 The work concludes with an interesting dissertation on the mental 
 faculties. An attempt is made to distinguish those which require the 
 instrumentality of nervous structure for their operation from those 
 which are independent of it. But we do not think the attempt at this 
 distinction a successful one. 
 
 I now proceed to notice the more strictly professional writings of 
 Dr. Prichard. Of this class the earliest was (1822) "A Treatise on 
 Diseases of the Nervous System," founded on cases observed in his 
 practice at Saint Peter's Hospital. The main object of this work was 
 to assist the discrimination and classification of those secondary forms 
 of nervous disorder which spring from remote organs, and which, in 
 the language of Dr. Marshall Hall, comprise the nervous diseases pro- 
 duced by eccentric irritation. The diseases particularly described were
 
 HIS MEDICAL WRITINGS. 135 
 
 Epilepsy and Mania. And he distinguished their forms, as arising, 
 (1.) From irregularity of the functions of the uterine system. (2.) From 
 disorder of the alimentary canal. (3.) From hepatic disorders. (4.) 
 The idiopathic or cerebral form. These forms were happily described 
 and were illustrated by a large number of instructive cases. Although 
 the author took no credit to himself for originality in ascribing many 
 cases of nervous disorder to faults in the organic functions, yet it was 
 plain that no one before him had so well discriminated the different 
 kinds, and referred them to their appropriate causes. The work added 
 greatly to Prichard's reputation, and it had the honour of being trans- 
 lated into German. 
 
 The next professional writings were the articles in the " Cyclo- 
 pedia of Practical Medicine," comprising, Delirium, Hypochondriasis, 
 Insanity, Somnambulism and Animal Magnetism, Soundness and 
 Unsoundness of Mind, and Temperament. Of these the largest and 
 most important was the article Insanity. It was afterwards expanded 
 into a separate treatise, which will always be a classic in this 
 department of medical literature. Its most striking feature was the 
 discrimination of that form of mental derangement which is now 
 known as Moral Insanity. M. Pinel had described mania without 
 delirium, consisting of ungovernable fury without any delusion ;* but 
 he had not pursued the subject farther. Dr. Prichard had the great 
 merit of proving the existence of insanity without marked intellectual 
 aberration. 
 
 I shall never forget the satisfaction I derived from the study of the 
 article Insanity, in the Cyclopedia ; and the light which I then derived 
 from it has repeatedly been a help and a guide to me in the investiga- 
 tion of cases of derangement in which no lesion of judgment was 
 discoverable. On looking over the work on Nervous Diseases lately, I 
 was surprised to find that on this subject Dr. Prichard had quite 
 changed his views ; for in this treatise, when noticing Pinel's " Mania 
 sine delirio," he threw doubts on the existence of such a morbid 
 condition of mind, and intimated the probability that there might be 
 latent delusion giving origin to the disordered feelings. Subsequent 
 inquiry and observation led him to alter his views, and, as I have said, 
 to extend the morbid condition far beyond the limits sketched by Pinel. 
 I shall beg permission of the Society to dwell somewhat on this point, 
 as it is one of high importance to us as medical practitioners, as well 
 
 * He termed it " Emportement Maniaque sans delire."
 
 136 LIFE OF DE. PRICHARD. 
 
 as being connected more tlian any other practical subject with the 
 name of Dr. Prichard. It seems to me strange that when we reflect 
 on the large share which the emotions and sentiments and passions 
 bear in the mental constitution of man (a fact conceded by all who 
 have speculated upon this branch of philosophy), and when we con- 
 sider that there has been no disinclination to attribute susceptibility of 
 separate and independent derangement to another part of our constitu- 
 tion, I mean the purely intellectual ; and moreover that the most 
 strenuous asserters of the doctrine, that insanity, in all cases, involves 
 a perversion of judgment, do not attempt to conceal that the propensities, 
 tastes, and emotions, are often, or indeed in most cases, morbidly 
 affected ; I say it seems strange that the question should not have 
 presented itself before, as to whether there are not actual cases in 
 which mental derangement is confined to the moral feelings and the 
 emotions, just as in other cases the perceptive and reasoning powers 
 are the sole subjects of disorder ; and stranger still, that, whether such 
 a priori suspicions ever arose or not, the real existence of such cases 
 should not have attracted observation. That they have been so entirely 
 overlooked can only be explained on the ground that the sentiments 
 and passions of man have been generally considered subservient to the 
 will and reason, and that any undue excitement of the former (the 
 passions) has been consequently supposed to arise either from a criminal 
 want of controul on the part of the will, or from a deficiency of rational 
 power ; so that, according to this view, a man of violent passions or 
 eccentric conduct, unless proved to entertain some delusion or hallu- 
 cination, must be either wilfully perverse, or chargeable with moral 
 delinquency. 
 
 Now, as to the slighter forms of moral insanity, as distinguished 
 from intellectual, the subjects of them may perhaps have passed 
 through life without producing a conviction that they were actually 
 mad, and yet they have exhibited such eccentricities of demeanour, 
 such waywardness of conduct, and peculiarity of temper, as to have 
 occasioned no little concern on the part of their friends. Such persons 
 have often inherited a tendency to insanity, have at former periods of 
 their lives been unquestionably insane, or have suffered inflammatory 
 affections of the brain. The characteristic distinction of such cases 
 is that, notwithstanding the strangeness of their habits and conduct, 
 they never betray any delusion; any belief, for instance, in things 
 morally or physically impossible, or at variance with the general
 
 MOKAL INSANITY. 137 
 
 opinion and common sense of mankind ; nor do they manifest any 
 deficiency of reasoning povrer ; they will even display great ingenuity 
 in accounting for the eccentricities of their conduct, and in explaining 
 and justifying the state of moral feeling under which they appear to 
 exist. Sometimes the derangement is manifested not so much in 
 peculiarity of conduct as in a preternatural excitement or depression 
 of the spirits. The latter is one of the most frequent forms of the 
 complaint. A person is overwhelmed with despondency, and though 
 possessed of every requisite for happiness, can take no pleasure in 
 anything under the sun. In other cases there is a preternatural 
 elevation of the spirits, an uncontrolable vivacity, an incessant restless- 
 ness, a desire to undertake great enterprises, and an everlasting 
 disposition to talk loudly and boisterously, without proper regard to 
 place or time or person. Upon the tendency which the morbid 
 dejection manifests to become involved in religious subjects, Dr. 
 Prichard makes the following observations: "In examples of a 
 different description, the mental excitement which constitutes this 
 disease is connected with religious feelings, and this is often the case 
 when the period of excitement has been preceded by one of melan- 
 choly, during which the individual affected has laboured under 
 depression and gloom, mixed with apprehensions as to his religious 
 state. A person, who has long suffered under a sense of condemnation 
 and abandonment, when .all the springs of hope and comfort have 
 appeared to be dried up, and nothing has been for a long time felt to 
 mitigate the gloom and sorrow of the present time, and the dark 
 and fearful anticipations of futurity, has passed all at once from 
 one extreme to another; his feelings have become of a sudden 
 entirely changed ; he has a sense of lively joy in contemplating the 
 designs of Providence towards him, amounting sometimes to rapture 
 and extacy. Such a change has been hailed by the relatives of the 
 individual thus affected, when they have happened to be pious and 
 devout persons, as a happy transition from a state of religious desti- 
 tution to one of acceptance and mental peace ; but the strain of 
 excitement is too high, the expressions of happiness too extatic to be 
 long mistaken ; signs of pride and haughtiness are betrayed, and of a 
 violent and boisterous deportment, which are quite unlike the effects 
 of religious influence, and soon unfold the real nature of the case ; or 
 it is clearly displayed by the selfishness, the want of natural affection, 
 the variableness of spirits, the irregular mental habits of the individual.
 
 138 LIFE OF DR. PRICHARD. 
 
 In the cases to which I have now referred there has been no erroneous 
 fact impressed upon the understanding ; no illusion or belief of a 
 particular message or sentence of condemnation or acceptance specifi- 
 cally revealed ; a disorder so characterised would not fall under the 
 head moral insanity. The morbid phenomena in the cases of disease 
 which I am now attempting to describe extend only to the state of the 
 feelings and spirits, the temper, the preternaturally excited sentiments 
 of hope, and fear, and the results which these influences are calculated 
 to produce in the mental constitution." 
 
 Moral Insanity often presents violent anger as its most prominent 
 phenomenon, at other times an inclination to theft, arson, or even 
 homicide. Sometimes the most striking characteristic is a sudden 
 change of disposition. There are many instances which show a transi- 
 tion from moral insanity to monomania. 
 
 On the whole, I cannot help viewing the subject as one of the most 
 interesting in the whole range of morbid psychology. And it is 
 impossible to think of it without having the mind filled with very 
 melancholy reflections. The deprivation of reason, in the ordinary 
 and most acknowledged forms of moody melancholy or of raving mania, 
 has abundantly served the purposes of moralizers on the imperfection 
 of human nature, or of such as have wished to exhibit the most startling 
 pictures of human misery; and, in truth, no subject is more productive 
 of horror, or more humiliating to pride. Yet the consideration of that 
 perversion of the natural feelings, tastes, and habits, which constitutes 
 moral insanity, introduces us to a wide world of human suffering, 
 which, though it may not be peopled with such appalling apparitions 
 as have risen before the imagination of poets, and been embodied into 
 the undying forms of Orestes, Ajax, and Lear, yet swarms with unhappy 
 beings ; sufferers whom we view not in those throes of anguish which 
 by their novelty throw an air of elevation or sublime indistinctness 
 over their subjects, but in the ordinary habit of the mind, in the quiet 
 paths of life, in the domestic chamber, and by the friendly hearth. 
 The maniac, and the melancholic, before their maladies have been 
 recognised, may have inflicted severe pangs on the minds of affectionate 
 friends and relatives for few ears are impassive to the mournful 
 discord of " sweet bells jangled out of tune " and their removal from 
 society may have left blanks which can never be so well filled ; but in 
 their retirement they are followed by feelings of tenderest compassion 
 and regret, as those who have been visited with the sorest chastisement
 
 MORAL INSANITY. 139 
 
 of heaven. Alas ! how different the fate of those whom it has pleased 
 Providence to afflict, not with aberrations of judgment, which are 
 detected by even the simplest of sound-headed observers, but with 
 marked obliquities of feeling, which are so easily confounded with bad 
 passions wilfully indulged, and with evil habits wilfully pursued. In 
 childhood, to suffer a constraining, torturing discipline, intended to 
 controul a waywardness, the root of which is beyond the reach of the 
 most anxious parent, or the most persevering educationist ; in youth, to 
 be marked for incorrigible vice, or for a perverseness which incapaci- 
 tates for any important occupation : in manhood, to be despised and 
 hated for singularities of manner and conduct ; to scatter confusion 
 and dismay over a once happy household by the development of un- 
 worthy passions, and intolerable irregularities of temper ; to distract 
 an affectionate and honourable wife by strange suspicions, and 
 unfounded jealousies ; to harass the timid child by irritability, 
 violence, and tyranny, which no tender submission can appease, no 
 fond attentions can mitigate ; to plunge helpless dependents into ruin 
 and beggary ; and in all these several conditions to be considered a 
 person fully responsible for his actions, and as capable of subduing 
 evil tendencies as are other people : these are but a few of the miseries 
 incident to the victims of the malady in question, and however inferior 
 they may appear in the picturesque to maniacal and melancholic visi- 
 tations, they are productive of far more sorrow to the individual, and 
 of far more lasting and wide-spread distress to those around him. 
 
 Dr. Prichard published, in 1842, a small volume, " On the Different 
 Forms of Insanity in relation to Jurisprudence, designed for the use 
 of persons concerned in legal questions regarding unsoundness of 
 mind." It is an extremely useful manual for the purpose, conveying 
 the distinctions laid down in the larger work in a more popular form, 
 mixed with rules for the guidance of the medico-legal practitioner. 
 
 In 1831 a very interesting practical paper, from his pen, appeared 
 in the Medical Gazette, giving an account of a new mode of applying 
 counter-irritation in diseases of the brain. It consisted in making an 
 incision of the scalp along the sagittal suture, and keeping the wound 
 open by means of peas, as in an ordinary issue. It was entitled, " On 
 the Treatment of Hemiplegia, and particularly on an important remedy 
 in some diseases of the Brain." The subject was renewed in a paper 
 read before the British Association of Science at the meeting held in 
 Bristol, in 1836. I had the honour of reading it for the author, and
 
 140 LIFE OF DR. PKICHAED. 
 
 I well remember the very great interest it excited among the members 
 of the medical section, among whom were some of the most distinguished 
 physicians and surgeons of the United Kingdom. 
 
 Were I to enumerate all his smaller compositions, both on profes- 
 sional and general topics, the list would be a very long one, for he 
 contributed largely to many periodical journals and reviews. Enough 
 has been said to shew the extent and variety of his learning ; yet I 
 cannot refrain from recording that, in 1815, he translated, jointly with 
 Mr. Tothill, Huller's Universal History ; that he rendered the Birds 
 of Aristophanes into English verse ; that he studied Biblical criticism 
 profoundly, and made many translations from the Hebrew Scriptures. 
 
 Perhaps it would be more prudent were I now to content myself 
 with having related the principal events and achievements of Dr. 
 Prichard's life. The hand of a more experienced artist would be 
 requisite to sketch such a mind and character ; much more to attempt, 
 by a skilful adjustment of light and shade and gradation of colour, to 
 give a faithful portrait of the eminent subject of this memoir. Yet it 
 would be hardly respectful to leave my task without endeavouring to 
 give some idea of the original, though it may prove to be only a rude 
 likeness, drawn by the hand of a friend. 
 
 In Dr. Prichard were recognised, of course, all those attributes 
 which belong more or less to men who are distinguished among their 
 fellows by intellectual power. The mere fact of his having been able 
 to produce such works as bear his name, tells what endowments he 
 possessed ; but were I to endeavour to present what was most 
 characteristic of his intellect, I should say it was largeness of capacity, 
 united with readiness of command over his resources. All men of 
 powerful minds have strong memories, for memory is the feeder of the 
 other faculties : even if originally robust, these must pine and languish 
 unless maintained by the nutriment which the former supplies. But 
 Dr. Prichard's memory was above the average, even for one of his 
 general mental calibre. His perceptions were by no means defective 
 in acuteness, yet it was not by acute observation that he was particularly 
 distinguished ; nor though his judgment was so sound and accurate, 
 should I say that this faculty was so prominent as to be singled from 
 the rest as one of his characteristics. Had he been engaged in the 
 legal profession, I think he would have shone particularly in collecting 
 and methodically arranging, and in luminously and eloquently stating
 
 HIS MENTAL QUALITIES. 141 
 
 an immense mass of evidence bearing upon a particular point ; not, 
 however, in the spirit of a mere advocate or partisan, but as one whose 
 mind, magnetised by a particular idea, attracted and assimilated to 
 itself every thing that could give support to that idea. It was not a 
 mind to produce a mere agglomeration of facts and notions, but one 
 that impregnated, informed, and organized them all into one living 
 whole. Yet, had he been placed on the bench, I think he would not 
 have been remarkable for mere judicial qualities, such as made 
 Tenterden and Eldon so eminent. Comprehensiveness, rather than 
 subtlety, was the character of his understanding. In conversation 
 he showed his preference to broad decided views rather than to the 
 fine-drawn distinctions, the hair-splittings of metaphysical analysis. 
 Yet in his writings it will not appear that his mind was warped by 
 a foregone conclusion. Few compositions give one a stronger impres- 
 sion of fairness and equity in weighing evidence. 
 
 Fancy and imagination were not prominent faculties in Dr. Prichard. 
 He was never at a loss for a suitable illustration to enrich his style, 
 which was affluent as well as terse and vigorous. Yet there was not 
 that conscious enjoyment in the pursuit of analogies and likenesses, 
 which belongs to men in whom the faculties I have adverted to are 
 stronly marked. And, correspondently with this, I think that he had 
 no decided sesthetical tendency, no such sensibility to the beautiful as 
 would lead him to dwell on the enjoyments of poetry and the fine arts; 
 though he was too much of a scholar, and in every way too well 
 informed, not to be able to converse on these subjects. A powerful 
 memory, and a strong philosophical bias, by which I mean the disposi- 
 tion to trace events to their causes, and to classify phenomena under 
 general laws, together with an astonishing capability for undergoing 
 mental labour, will, I think, be found to have been the most distin- 
 guishing traits of Dr. Prichard's understanding. 
 
 In the moral department of his character, high nay, highest 
 integrity and honour, and an utter abhorrence of whatever even 
 bordered on the mean and truckling, were united with general bene- 
 volence and with strong domestic affections. He was by no means 
 prone to suspicion of motives, and was, perhaps, too easy in the 
 admission of testimony, so that his ears were sometimes open to the 
 first informant on any subject, and he thus might receive impressions 
 which afterwards had to be corrected. The freedom from assumption 
 in his ordinary life and demeanour was very remarkable. The simpli-
 
 142 LIFE OF DK. PRICHAED. 
 
 city, and all but diffidence of manner displayed in company, where 
 his intellect far overtowered that of others, could not fail to strike 
 observation. He would converse with persons infinitely his inferiors 
 in mind and attainments, as if they were on the same level with him, 
 asking their opinions in connection with subjects upon which he might 
 have dictated to the whole republic of science. 
 
 Persons familiar with his works would not be surprised to hear of 
 the prodigious amount of erudition which would come out in conver- 
 sation. It was no matter how remote the subject might seem to be 
 from the pursuits of a physician; he would unroll such stores of 
 information upon it, as might be expected of a man who had devoted 
 his whole time and attention to it. He was fond of discussion, and 
 would sometimes, for the sake of amusement, support views that were 
 paradoxical, or maintainable solely for the sake of argument ; yet he 
 was quite free from dogmatism, or anything like an overbearing tone. 
 If a person of more assurance than knowledge were discoursing or 
 arguing in an unbecoming manner, Dr. Prichard, instead of vehemently 
 assailing him, might ask one or two questions, more Socratico, which 
 sufficed to deprive the pretender both of his false position and of his 
 presence of mind ; but he would be the first to try to help the defeated 
 out of his disgrace and confusion. Every one left his society impressed, 
 as much by the modesty of the great man, as by the marvellous extent 
 of his knowledge. 
 
 As a physician he was distinguished, not only by his extraordinary 
 natural powers, and by the extent of his professional attainments, both 
 scientific and practical, but also by the earnestness with which he 
 devoted himself to his duties, and by his kind and considerate conduct 
 towards his patients. He weighed their symptoms anxiously, and was 
 most conscientious in carrying out the appropriate treatment. He was 
 particularly successful with cases that required a decided uncompro- 
 mising line of action ; and his boldness, consistency, and fearlessness 
 met with their best rewards. Of the little matters of detail that must 
 have their share of attention in many cases, he was rather impatient. 
 He liked in practice, as in other matters, broad views rather than a 
 fine analysis of symptoms and minutiae of treatment. 
 
 In his moral constitution, reverence was very prominent. It 
 showed itself in the value which he attached to the opinions and 
 authority of really great men, and more especially in his sentiments 
 towards the great First Cause. Those who had but very slight com-
 
 CONCLUSION. 143 
 
 munication with him must have felt assured that nothing could ever 
 have proceeded from him disparaging to the interests of religion ; and 
 no one knew him intimately, without being aware of the strong 
 influence which piety maintained over his mind, and how it actuated 
 all his conduct. His opinions, during the greater part of his life, 
 were in strict conformity with the doctrines embodied in the book of 
 Common Prayer. 
 
 Dr. Prichard was in stature rather below the middle height, and of 
 rather slight make. He had light hair, and grey eyes, which, though 
 somewhat small, were of singularly intelligent expression. The form 
 of his head was very fine ; broad and prominent in the forehead, lofty 
 and capacious in the crown. The countenance, to the most superficial 
 observer, betokened deep thoughtfulness, with something of reserve 
 and shyness, but blended with true kindliness. His voice was rather 
 weak and low, but very distinct in articulation. His manners and 
 deportment, as I have already remarked, were simple and unaffected ; 
 and in general company he evidently spoke with effort or even 
 reluctance, unless upon subjects of business or of scientific and literary 
 interest. 
 
 His last illness was one of great suffering. A few days before its 
 termination he became conscious that his earthly career was drawing 
 towards its close, and he awaited the event with the resignation and 
 calmness that befitted a Christian philosopher. Though he had not 
 ceased from his labours, nay, the sickle was in his hand when it 
 drooped, few could so well have said, though he would have been the 
 last to say it, "I have not lived in vain." If one could venture in 
 imagination to follow the musings of that departing spirit, one might 
 conceive the satisfaction with which he looked back on his well-spent 
 life. He had not to regret the consumption of precious hours in the 
 pursuit of sensual gratification, nor yet in more refined enjoyment ; 
 neither in " lordly ease," nor in " learned leisure." Youth had found 
 him assiduous in acquiring truth and knowledge ; manhood and 
 advancing age had witnessed untiring exertions in a profession, which, 
 whatever it may produce to the practitioner, is, if grounded on adequate 
 knowledge, an employment pre-eminently useful to his fellow creatures. 
 And the intervals in those avocations, instead of having been set apart, 
 as they might innocently have been, for recreation and amusement, 
 had been filled up with labours, which, had he done nothing else, 
 would have enabled him to bequeath honour to his family, as the
 
 144 LITE OF DR. PRICHARD. 
 
 inheritors of his renown, and lasting benefits to mankind of the highest 
 order; for I know not what gifts can surpass those of truth and 
 wisdom. As the death-shadows began to gather over the spirit, which 
 till it was extinguished could not but be still "looking before and 
 after," the memories of his noble and useful labours might have 
 loomed large before his dimming vision, mingled with recollections of 
 happy hours passed in that loving domestic circle, over which his benign 
 and gentle disposition shed peace and contentment. And one fancies 
 that with such remembrances he might well say, Nunc dimittis. But 
 his mind, originally so humble, and so chastened and purified by 
 religious principle, was far more likely to have spent his last moments, 
 not in contemplating what he had done, but what he had left undone ; 
 thinking whether he could render a good account of his stewardship 
 of those remarkable talents with which his Maker had endowed him ; 
 reposing on infinite goodness ; and aspiring to a blessed state of being 
 for which this mingled life of joy and sorrow, hope and disappointment, 
 is but the preparation and discipline. I doubt not that the deeds of 
 his life, which to us look large and brilliant, before his failing sight 
 shrank small and dim, and that his soul, which no earthly vision could 
 content, much less the contemplation of his own doings, turned towards 
 that Parent Source from which all his light had been drawn, and 
 longed to be absorbed into its divine and immortal essence. But 
 though, with that true modesty which belongs to the most gifted, 
 because they are the most capable of measuring real virtue and great- 
 ness ; which led Newton to liken himself to a little child picking up 
 pebbles on the shore of an unexplored ocean ; and which modesty, as 
 I have said, was so remarkable in my lost friend, that I cannot choose 
 but dwell upon it ; though he would have depreciated rather than 
 magnified himself, we who look at him from without, and estimate him 
 by the standards that enable men not only to recognize moral excellence, 
 but to mete out the degrees of their approval, cannot refrain from 
 declaring that no spirit could pass more blameless and unstained from 
 its mortal trial, none more fitted for the communion of the great and 
 good, none more ready to appear 
 
 " Before the Judge ; who thenceforth bade him rest, 
 And drink his fill of pure immortal streams."
 
 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 Two LECTURES DELIVERED AT THE BRISTOL LITERARY AND 
 PHILOSOPHICAL INSTITUTION, IN 1851. 
 
 I. 
 
 f EJECTS of study may be arranged under two great divisions ; 
 one consisting of those which, must be sought in a wide inves- 
 
 &' tigation of external nature ; the other of such as are at all times, 
 and in all places, within our reach. The former are spread as 
 far as our bodies, or our senses, aided or unaided, can extend; the 
 latter we carry about with us. The one class are objects of sensation, 
 or outward observation ; the other of consciousness and internal 
 reflection ; the world without, and the world within ; this embracing 
 the workings of our minds, our emotions, sentiments, affections, and 
 propensities ; the other, all the domain of matter and its attributes, 
 all that exists, whether we are living to observe it or not. Reviewing 
 these two classes, we cannot help being struck with the overflowing 
 provision which they present to our mental cravings ; for while, on the 
 one hand, the perceptive faculties have unbounded and delightful 
 exercise amid the sublime and beautiful objects which the Creator has 
 presented to us, in what we call the realms of Natural History, and 
 Physical Philosophy ; on the other hand, when by accident confined to 
 narrow limits of 'space, deprived of one of our senses, or excluded 
 from the objects of these senses, as in the shades of night, or in the 
 solitude of sickness or captivity, we may turn inwards the mental eye, 
 and see the wonders which the same Almighty Hand has fashioned in 
 the mind and heart of man.
 
 146 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 Our present subject belongs in some measure to both of the depart- 
 ments of inquiry which I have thus briefly sketched ; for our knowledge 
 of it is in part derived from observation of it in other beings. 
 
 To know something of that condition in which we spend one-third 
 of our lives, is not an unworthy inquiry. And yet the thought may at 
 first occur to you, "What can be better known than sleep ? a state of 
 which we have all of us common experience. But simple and obvious 
 as it may seem to be, we shall find that the more we investigate it, the 
 more is it productive of topics for interesting and curious speculation, 
 and of questions not very easily answered. 
 
 What is Sleep ? If we attempt to define it in positive terms, we 
 shall find ourselves insensibly wandering among those metaphorical 
 descriptions familiar to us in the pages of the poets, instead of giving 
 an accurate account of its phenomena ; for in fact it is a negative state 
 of the living body, and it is only to be correctly represented by the 
 enumeration of various actions which are wanting in that condition, 
 and the presence of which renders a person awake. To sleep perfectly 
 is, not to see, not to hear, not to smell, not to taste, not to touch, not 
 to speak, not to move ; in short, not to exercise one of the faculties 
 which characterize a human being or even an animal. Well, then, 
 may sleep be called "the image of Death," "Death's brother," "so 
 like death," says Sir T. Browne, solemnly, " that I dare not trust it 
 without my prayers." So, too, it was described by Homer, 
 
 " Then gentle slumber on his eyelids fell, 
 That deep, sweet sleep, which death resembles well." 
 
 In the human body there are two great classes of vital actions. 
 One of them comprehends all that belong to the function of Nutrition, 
 by virtue of which the solid framework is maintained and repaired, 
 and which consists in the continual addition of new particles of matter, 
 and in the removal of those which have become useless. To this class 
 also belongs the circulating function, whereby the materials for the 
 former actions are distributed to the different parts of the body, in the 
 form of blood; also Respiration, a process for purifying the blood, 
 and rendering it otherwise better fitted for the purpose of nutrition ; 
 also Secretion, a process by which matters, as in perspiration, are 
 removed from the blood, and by which fluids are formed, which serve 
 important offices in the system. 
 
 Now, these several functions, you observe, are all occupied in 
 maintaining the body as a living organic structure, that is, as a
 
 SUSPENSION OF ANIMAL FUNCTIONS IN SLEEP. 147 
 
 structure distinguished by the actions which have been adverted to, 
 from those structures in which there is no growth, no circulation, no 
 respiration, bodies which, in a word, are inorganic. Moreover, these 
 functions are analogous to what are observed in the vegetable kingdom, 
 and therefore they are often called the vegetable or organic functions ; 
 and as the collection of vital actions is designated the life of the body, 
 so this particular group, of which we have been speaking, is denomi- 
 nated the organic, or the vegetable life of the human body, to 
 distinguish it from another group. This other group comprises 
 sensation, thought and voluntary motion ; and as these are possessed 
 only by the members of the animal kingdom, they are called animal 
 functions, and the sum of them the animal life ; or, since it is by help 
 of these actions that the animal entertains communications with sur- 
 rounding objects, we sometimes speak of it as the Life of Relations. 
 
 In the state of waking both these lives co-exist, and render each 
 other mutual service. The functions of relation are indicating, through 
 the sensations, certain external means of support for the fabric, while 
 the motor faculties obtain them, and in their turn the vegetable func- 
 tions are keeping the organs of sensation and motion in a state of 
 efficiency. 
 
 But what is the case in sleep ? Here we see that the superadded 
 functions which constitute the animal life are withdrawn, and the body, 
 for the time, is reduced to the condition of a vegetable. They are 
 suspended, not extinguished ; but there are other states in which 
 extinction of animal life has taken place, though the organic life 
 continues for awhile, as in certain kinds of fatal stupor; that, for 
 example, produced by a poisonous dose of opium. In such irrecover- 
 able sleep animal life is extinct, though the organic may hold out for 
 some time longer. 
 
 Ordinary slumber, then, consists in the temporary cessation of the 
 action of voluntary muscles, and their nervous connections, and of the 
 senses. The order in which these are steeped in forgetfulness, those 
 in inertia, is not always the same, nor are they always suspended at 
 the same time. 
 
 The phenomena of sleep, as observed by a bystander, are, for the 
 most part these : The features are relaxed, and give little or no 
 expression, unless of bodily pain or distress, or of the sentiments of a 
 dream, or of some long predominant passion, which has been so often 
 denoted by certain muscles of the face, that .these have acquired a fixed
 
 148 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 unnatural development from their constant exercise, and thus, even at 
 a time of repose, they produce the semblance of emotions which may 
 be really at rest. Ordinarily, however, the features exhibit no other 
 aspect than that of passiveness. The eyelids are closed more or less 
 completely ; but in states of great debility, and especially in children, 
 the closure is imperfect. The eyeballs are rolled upwards, so that the 
 pupils, even in the semi-closure, are not fully exposed to the light ; 
 they may, however, be quite open to light, and sleep, nevertheless, 
 occur, though such instances are extremely rare. The ears are not 
 defended from outward causes of hearing in any other manner than by 
 a relaxation of the muscle which keeps the drum of the ear on the 
 stretch, and which is probably used only in the nicer discriminations of 
 sound. Odorous particles reach the nerve of smell, but are not carried 
 into it with that impetus which enables them to be more strongly 
 perceived, and which requires a voluntary effort. Taste is not excited, 
 partly because no substance is presented, and partly because the 
 tongue is not pressed against the palate. The general sensibility of 
 the body is not aroused, for the contact of clothes and the pressure of 
 the chair or couch occasion impressions too slight and too habitual to 
 be noticed. The sense of touch has no stimulus applied to it, for this 
 involves muscular exertion, as in the application of the tips of the 
 fingers. 
 
 In one way or other, then, the sleeper is withdrawn in some degree 
 from the agents which affect the senses ; but all these conditions may 
 be absent, and yet sleep no less occur, for the only thing essential to 
 this state is torpor of the nerves, or of the nervous centres with which 
 they are connected. 
 
 We are generally made aware that a person sleeps by his insen- 
 sibility to sounds, for the shutting of the eyes is obviously equivocal. 
 If the slumber be light, the slightest touch may awaken him, an 
 impression far slighter than that made by any part of his dress, or by 
 the pressure of his body. This is owing to the novelty of the im- 
 pression, a quality which always increases its effect ; and I may 
 remark, incidentally, that the mere cessation of an impression that 
 was present at the time of falling asleep, may cause the sleeper to 
 awake ; thus, a person who sleeps while another is reading often starts 
 when the reader pauses ; and this removal of an impression is tanta- 
 mount to a new impression, since the nerve is put into a condition 
 different from what had existed for some time. The finger may have
 
 RELAXATION OF MUSCLES IN SLEEP. 149 
 
 been so accustomed to the pressure of a ring that its pressure is 
 unheeded, but let it be taken away, and the wearer is immediately 
 reminded of its absence by the new feeling in the part. 
 
 As the slumber becomes more profound, the eye, the ear, and the 
 skin become less impressible ; strong light may stream through the 
 semi-pellucid eyelids, loud noises may reverberate, and the individual 
 may be touched, nay, moved, and yet he may not awake. 
 
 Not only, as we have seen, are the muscles of the face relaxed, but 
 also those of the trunk and limbs. The muscles which are necessary 
 for respiration continue to act, but their action is independent of the 
 will, though occasionally assisted by it. The relaxation is generally 
 gradual. If the sleeper is in the sitting posture, the grasp of the 
 hand on the book, or any other object, gives way, the body inclines 
 forward, or sideways, or backwards, according to the direction towards 
 which gravitation directs it ; the head falls towards the breast, because 
 it is so articulated to the spine that its heavier portion is anterior to 
 the centre of motion. The shock given by this descent of the head 
 often rouses the sleeper sufficiently to make him bring it back to a 
 position more accordant with his rank in the scale of animals ; and 
 then the will again slumbers, and the head is again degraded. 
 
 On examining the limbs, we notice that they are gently bent. 
 There are two sets of muscles which move the limbs ; one set which 
 bend the joints, the other which straighten them ; they are technically 
 called flexors and extensors, and they antagonise each other. In sleep 
 the flexors are said to have the predominance ; not, however, that this 
 statement is quite correct, for neither set are positively in action. The 
 limbs are found in a semi-flexed position, not because of a continued 
 action of the flexor muscles, but because having been instinctively 
 placed in that position, they remain in it when the muscles are 
 reposing. They are instinctively so placed, in order that the body 
 may rest more easily, because on a more extensive base, when the 
 limbs are slightly bent. Any one will find, when lying down on the 
 side, and trying to rest with the limbs extended, that the points of 
 support for the body are much fewer, and therefore that the pressure 
 on the parts which are undermost is greater than if the limbs are 
 moderately bent.* 
 
 * A limb at rest, whether in the sleeping or waking state, is slightly bent. It 
 may naturally be asked, why should not a limb which has been extended remain in 
 that position when the extensor muscles have ceased to act ? It appears to be owing 
 to the relative shortness of the flexor tendons, which must date from the processes of 
 growth in the earliest stages of existence, when the continued flexion of the limbs 
 is greater than at any subsequent period.
 
 150 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 These remarks on the sleeper all have reference to what I described 
 to you as the Life of Eelations, but we cannot close this first super- 
 ficial study of his condition without noticing the respiration. It is 
 slower than in the waking state, and it is more audible. The latter 
 character depends on the air being drawn through the nostrils only, 
 and with more force, because the inspirations are deeper. Sometimes, 
 as in very profound sleep, the breathing is absolutely laborious ; the 
 cause of which is either that the torpor natural to one part of the 
 nervous system is extended to another which is very near it, and from 
 which the nerves which animate the muscles of respiration derive their 
 energy, or that the state of sleep, combined with the position, has 
 caused such a fulness of the vessels about this part as to oppress its 
 function. In coma, or morbid sleep, this phenomenon is very common. 
 The circulation is also slower, that is, the beatings of the heart are less 
 frequent ; one reason for which is the suspended muscular action in the 
 limbs, for no cause has a greater influence in quickening the circu- 
 lation than muscular action ; and the mode in which it operates is by 
 compressing the veins, and so hastening the flow of blood through 
 them towards the heart. Also there is, cateris parilus, a direct pro- 
 portion between the rate of circulation and the respiratory movements. 
 Another fact worthy of notice, as to the organic life in sleep, is that 
 the body is more easily affected by cold. Now, the body resists the 
 action of outward cold, or, in stricter language, is enabled to part with 
 a large portion of heat to the air and other surrounding objects by 
 virtue of its own faculty of manufacturing heat. The animal caloric 
 is formed in greater quantity, in proportion as the respiration and the 
 circulation are more active ; therefore it is not wonderful that during 
 sleep cold should have a greater effect upon the body than during our 
 waking moments. It is probable, also, that there is a direct relation 
 through the nervous force, which seems to be intimately connected 
 with the production of heat. 
 
 Digestion and the assimilative function are, probably, more active 
 during sleep ; so also is the function of perspiration ; but I must not 
 dwell upon these points, as we have much before us. 
 
 There are provisions for excluding the agents which excite some of 
 the organs of sense. Thus, the eye is curtained by its drooping lids, 
 and the muscle which puts the drum of the ear on the stretch is pro- 
 bably relaxed ; but all external exciting causes may be removed, 
 except the contact of clothing with the skin, or the impression on the 
 part of the body which is reclining, and yet sleep may be absent. The
 
 SUSPENSION OF SENSIBILITY IN SLEEP. 151 
 
 feeling of wakefulness continues, the thoughts are those of waking 
 hours, and the will is ready to put any resolves into action. And 
 again, on the other hand, the most vivid and violent impressions may 
 be made on the organs of sense without interfering with the accession, 
 or interrupting the course of sleep. The weary gunner sinks into 
 slumber by the side of roaring cannon ; the jaded sailor boy drops 
 asleep 
 
 " upon the high and giddy mast, 
 In cradle of the rude imperious surge," 
 
 and many an overworn artizan dozes before the blaze of a furnace, or 
 the glare of gas lamps. 
 
 There is, then, something more than the mere cessation of external 
 impressions, and more than mere muscular inaction. The susceptibility 
 of impressions, that is the sensibility, is paralysed, and the will no 
 longer acts. The degree to which the sensibility is suspended is often 
 wonderfully slight ; for, notwithstanding the individual sleeps, one ray 
 of light falling on the closed eyelids, one faintest foot-fall, may arouse 
 him. 
 
 What we have as yet remarked respecting sleep might be learnt 
 from mere observation of the change which this state induces in others, 
 and even in the lower animals ; but that which we have next to take 
 notice of could be ascertained only by our own experience of the state, 
 or by the communications of others. I allude to the state of the mind. 
 As we shall have to discuss this topic fully in the next lecture, what I 
 have now to say will only be enough to connect it with the rest of our 
 subject. 
 
 All the objects which surround us, and which we perceive by our 
 senses, may be said to be composed of our sensations ; for in giving 
 an account of an object we are only able to relate the sensations which 
 it has produced, though we instinctively believe that the existence of 
 these objects, that is of the causes of our sensations, is independent 
 of our own existence. When the objects which cause the sensations 
 are no longer present, they may be remembered ; by which we mean, 
 that the sensations may return to our minds. But how do we dis- 
 tinguish these remembered sensations from those which are immediately 
 produced by present objects ? In no other way that I am aware of 
 than by their comparative faintness. The recognition of the present 
 outward object, as present and outward, depends upon the liveliness of 
 the image, for a certain degree of vividness seems inseparably asso-
 
 152 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 ciated with the feeling of externality, or outness. The object is felt at 
 once not to be a part of ourselves, it is " non ego" separate from us, 
 and independent of us. A friend present to our sight produces an 
 image more vivid than any we can at any time call up by an act of 
 memory. Just think what confusion would arise if remembered 
 sensations and present sensations were of equal vividness. The real 
 and the unreal would be intermingled ; for as to the subjects under 
 discussion, the real is that which is actually perceived, the unreal, 
 what exists only in the mind. One person is really present, and the 
 light reflected from his body produces a certain impression on the 
 retina, which again excites in our brain, and through it, in our mind, 
 an image which is so vivid as to make us believe instinctively, what is 
 really the case, that he stands before us. But the analogous sensation 
 which the person of another individual, who may be no longer living, 
 once excited in our minds, is at the same time revived ; and yet we do 
 not think the latter individual present, though he is perceived by what 
 is called the mental eye. The image is distinct, but it is far less vivid 
 than the former, and indeed than any other object of present sensation, 
 so that the living and the dead are kept separate. This is the state of 
 the case in the healthy condition of the mind and its organ. But the 
 occurrences of disease may alter this relation between present and 
 remembered sensations. The latter may become equally vivid with the 
 former. The person subject to such disorder believes persons to be 
 before him who are not really so, because the images in his mind have, 
 under morbid action, become unnaturally vivid, have acquired the 
 same liveliness as present perceptions, and though revived only in his 
 mind, are projected into the sphere of vision. This is the rationale of 
 apparitions, ghosts, and spectral illusions. And to do away with the 
 objection derived from any other argument as to the reality of spectres, 
 I may remark that the remembered perceptions may be not mere ideas 
 of human beings, but also of the lower animals, and even of inanimate 
 objects; dress for instance, for ghosts are never without drapery. In 
 the disease called " delirium tremens" it is very common for the 
 patient to see ghosts of rats and mice, and spectral swords and guns. 
 Bear in mind, then, this difference in the vividness of perceptions and 
 ideas, and you will better understand what occurs in sleep. Sensations, 
 we have seen, are suspended ; therefore the images in dreaming have 
 no sensations to be contrasted with them, and they give the complete 
 feeling of reality. They do not arise with the stamp of the past upon
 
 DIFFERENT DEGREES OF SLEEPFULNESS. 153 
 
 them, as in our -waking hours, and they are combined together in 
 fantastic associations without any control of the will. I am inclined 
 to think that by reason of the diminished action in the part of the 
 brain connected with sensation, there may sometimes be increased 
 action in that connected with the revival of past impressions, in corres- 
 pondence with a law constantly operating in the human economy, that 
 diminished action in one part causes exalted action in another ; but 
 this view is hypothetical. 
 
 From this account, then, it appears that when we sleep we not only 
 lose the sensibility to external objects, and the power of volition, but 
 also that ideas acquire such an increase of relative or absolute liveli- 
 ness as to give all the feeling of reality or outward existence, and, in 
 fact, introduce us for the time into a new world. 
 
 I shall now, in order to vary this discourse, remark the different 
 tendencies to sleep in different animals, and in diffent individuals of 
 the human species. 
 
 It is probable that all animals pass at some time or other into the 
 state of sleep, since periodicity of action seems a universal property of 
 the functions which characterize an animal. Little is known of the 
 phenomena of sleep in animals which range below the vertebrated 
 classes, and have less complicated nervous systems. Periods of inac- 
 tivity are with them, perhaps, periods of sleep. Fishes are known to 
 sleep, and Aristotle tells us how they may be surprized in their slumbers. 
 Reptiles often sleep for very long periods, especially serpents, when 
 they have been provided with food enough to last them for several 
 weeks' digestion. Birds take much shorter periods of repose, and the 
 mammalia likewise, excepting those which pass periodically into the 
 state of hibernation, which is a profound degree of sleep. Setting 
 aside, for the present, this state, we may observe that the capability of 
 sleeping for a long period bears a relation to the digestive function of 
 the animal. If it needs frequent supplies of food, those organs which 
 provide it must be correspondingly active. But if a large quantity 
 can be laid up in store, the senses and muscular movements may be 
 suspended during its slow digestion ; and this, as we have said, is the 
 case with serpents. Many beasts of prey, which continue watchful for 
 several days, when hungry, will remain torpid for a long time after 
 they have gorged themselves with food. Man, who has a greater 
 power than any other animal of accommodating himself to varying 
 circumstances, has often acquired the habit of long fasts, making large
 
 154 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 meals, and spending a corresponding time in sleep. It is one of the- 
 accomplishments of the aboriginal civilization of North America to be- 
 able to lay in a stock of food for two or three days, and to sleep in 
 long spells, in order to be able to bear long abstinence and watching. 
 There are many curious cases on record of persons capable of long 
 slumbers. " Quin, the celebrated player," says Dr. Macnish, " could 
 slumber for twenty-four hours successively. Elizabeth Orvan spent 
 three-fourths of her life in sleep. Elizabeth Perkins slept for a week 
 or fortnight at a time. Mary Lyall did the same for six successive weeks. 
 In Bowyer's Life of Beattie a curious anecdote is related of Dr. Reid, 
 viz., that he could take as much food, and immediately afterwards as 
 much sleep, as were sufficient for two days." 
 
 I cannot leave this part of my subject without noticing the fact that 
 animals give evidence of dreaming. It was not a mere poetical specu- 
 lation which led that accurate observer of the habits of animals, Sir 
 Walter Scott, to say, 
 
 " The Stag hounds, weary with the chase, 
 
 Lay stretched upon the rushy floor; 
 And urged, in dreams, the forest race, 
 
 From Teviot Stone to Eskdale Moor.' 1 
 
 Lucretius describes the indications of dreaming in the lower animals 
 with great minuteness. He even points out the difference observable 
 in the dreams of dogs of chase from those of the lap-dog. 
 " Venantumque canes in molli ssepe quiete 
 Jactant crura tamen subito, vocesque repente 
 Mittunt, et crehras redducunt naribus auras, 
 Ut vestigia si teneant inventa ferarum. 
 Expergefactique seqtiuntur inania saepe 
 Cervorum simulacra, fugse quasi dedita cernant ; 
 , Donee discussis redeant erroribus ad se. 
 
 At consueta domi catulorum hlanda propago 
 Degere, saepe levem ex oculis, volucremque soporem 
 Discutere, et corpus de terra conripere instant, 
 Proinde quasi ignotas facies, atque ora tuantur."* 
 
 We must all of us have noticed that dogs growl and snap in their 
 sleep, as if angry, and sometimes whine, or wag their tails, as if more 
 amiable emotions were playing over their slumbers. Horses are said 
 to neigh and rear in their sleep ; and parrots, the most intelligent of 
 the winged race, are reported by those who have studied them to give 
 unequivocal signs of dreaming. 
 
 * De Kerum Natura, Lib. iv.
 
 HYBERNATION. 155 
 
 The sleep of animals cannot be dismissed without one or two- 
 comments on that remarkable condition called Hibernation. A few 
 animals only, as the hedgehog, the dormouse, the marmot, the hamster, 
 and the bat, are known to pass into this state at certain periods. A 
 great deal of mystery once hung over this subject, and the animal was 
 thought whilst hybernating to have its whole life suspended but not 
 extinguished. The state is now known to be one of profound sleep. 
 And not only are the animal functions brought into a state of complete 
 inactivity, but even those of the organic life are reduced to the lowest 
 ebb compatible with the continuance of vital action. The respiration 
 can scarcely be detected, and the circulation is wonderfully slackened. 
 Thus, " in the hamster the pulse usually beats at the rate of 150 per 
 minute, but it is reduced to 1 5 in the torpid condition. Marmots, in a 
 state of health and activity, perform about 500 respirations in an 
 hour ; but in the torpid state these occur only about 14 times during 
 the same period, and are executed with intervals of four or five minutes 
 of absolute rest, and without any considerable enlargement of the 
 chest."* The bat feeds upon insects, but in winter the insects disap- 
 pear ; therefore the Creator has beneficently arranged that during that 
 season the bat shall pass its time in a deep lethargy, not requiring 
 food, because little or no nourishment is then expended. The hedgehog 
 wakes up after two, three, or four days, and obtains a few snails or 
 worms, if the ground is not too hard. The dormouse may wake every 
 day, for a short time, when it eats a few grains if it can find them, 
 and relapses into sleep. The temperature of these animals falls very 
 nearly to that of the atmosphere, which is a further illustration of how 
 little is the amount of vital action of which they are the subjects. 
 But it is not because they are cold that they become lethargic. The 
 state of hybernation is quite distinct from the torpor occasioned by 
 loss of heat. 
 
 We now return to the consideration of sleep in man. 
 
 There are different degrees of sleep. It is more or less complete 
 both as a whole, and in its separate parts ; for you must have gathered 
 from what we have said, that sleep is a complex state, since the name 
 is given to the hushed condition of the five senses, the suspension of 
 voluntary motion, and that peculiar condition of the mind to which we 
 have adverted. An eminent French Physiologist said, " Le sommeil 
 
 * Dr. Carpenter's General and Comparative Physiology, 156.
 
 156 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 general est 1'ensemble des sommeils particuliers." We have seen that 
 there are very different degrees of intensity in the sleep of one sense 
 at different times ; but I have now to call your attention to the fact, 
 that one or more senses or faculties may be wakeful, or nearly so, 
 while the rest are profoundly asleep. Thus the organ of hearing is 
 often sufficiently impressible to convey sensations to the sleeper, which 
 are mingled with the ideas of his dreams and suggest new scenes, and 
 often with the greatest rapidity, so much so, that in the short time 
 which elapses while the noises are occurring, a long period may seem 
 to be occupied by scenes and actions suggested to the dreaming faculties. 
 I remember once in my sleep witnessing what I thought a prolonged 
 storm of thunder and lightning, which I was able afterwards to trace 
 to the light of a candle brought suddenly into the dark room where I 
 had fallen asleep, and to the noise made in opening a door, the lock of 
 which was never turned without a good deal of grating and rattling. 
 Sensations derived from the skin may have a similar effect. The touch 
 or grasp of a person arousing the slumberer, may suggest to his mind 
 images of robbers or enemies, with whom he is struggling. A person 
 having a blister applied to his head, fancied he was scalped by a party 
 of Indians. And a friend of Dr. Macnish's " happening to sleep in 
 damp sheets, dreamed he was dragged through a stream. Another 
 friend dreamed he was stroking a kitten, which in consequence purred 
 most lustily. On awaking, he found that the working of the heavy 
 machinery of a neighbouring mill was slightly shaking his bed, and 
 making the joints produce a sound like the purring of a cat." 
 
 By this incomplete sleep, this waking of some of the senses, and 
 the consequent production of impressions which are mixed up with the 
 ideas in the mind, we can easily explain the frightful dreams produced 
 by many disorders of the stomach and other digestive organs. 
 
 Some of the most interesting examples of the incompleteness of 
 sleep are met with in the locomotive system. I do not allude to the 
 restless movements of the limbs, or to the change of position often 
 observed in light sleepers, which are more of the nature of instinctive 
 or involuntary actions, than of movements directed by the will. In 
 ordinary and natural sleep, though we may dream of making great 
 muscular exertions both with hands and feet, we are lying quite inert ; 
 but when the sleep is less perfect, some of the muscles, through their 
 nervous connections, may awake, and do the bidding of 'the mental 
 images. A friend of mine awoke one morning desperately clutching
 
 SOMNAMBULISM. 157 
 
 and tugging at the strings of his night cap : he had been dreaming 
 that a viper had fastened upon his throat, and he was doing his best 
 to tear it away. The most common form of this partial sleep is Sleep- 
 talking, in which the muscles of the voice answer to the ideas. A 
 more inconvenient species is the waking of so large a number of the 
 muscles as those which raise the trunk, and enable the person to walk ; 
 this is strictly Somnambulism, or Sleep-walking. But there are very- 
 different kinds and degrees of it. In the simplest, that to which I 
 have just alluded, the sense of sight being still asleep, the person 
 walks straight forward, unconscious of the impediments in his way, 
 and is soon aroused, and very roughly, by coming in contact with 
 obstacles. But in other cases of a more morbid kind, the eyes may be 
 open, objects may be perceived and avoided in the sleeper's perambu- 
 lations, and yet he may not be awake, for the images in his mind are 
 as vivid as those which he derives from present sensations ; and, 
 therefore, the unreal is confounded with the real, as in the case of the 
 ghost-seer, only that in the latter the morbid condition takes its starting 
 place from the waking state instead of from sleep. As an example of 
 the serious consequences of this condition, I may remark that I know 
 of a gentleman who, in this imperfect sleep, got out of bed, walked to 
 the window, opened it, and let himself fall down from three stories' 
 height, doubtless under the illusion produced by the mixture of the 
 vivid conception of a dream, with the actual perception of some of the 
 objects around him. As the ghost-seer views the phantom walking 
 among the living, so this somnambulist, when he opened the window, 
 might have had a beautiful garden spread before his mental eye upon 
 which he thought to step out, instead of incurring a dreadful fall, that 
 nearly cost him his life. 
 
 It is quite impossible to attempt entering at all satisfactorily into 
 this subject on the present occasion : but I may give one further 
 instance of incomplete sleep, or partial waking, in the case of a person 
 who talks in sleep, while at the same time the sense of hearing is 
 awake. I have heard that this is so often the case with one person 
 that, by a little skilful management, long dialogues may be held with 
 her while she sleeps. It is necessary to speak in an under tone, or the 
 impressions on the auditory nerves are so strong as to awake her com- 
 pletely ; but with this precaution, and by taking the cue from what 
 she has said in her sleep, questions may be interposed to which she 
 will give answers very unreservedly, so that a dishonourable person
 
 158 SLEEP AND DEEAMS. 
 
 might steal from her, in these unguarded moments, the most cherished 
 secrets. On waking, she is quite unconscious of having held these 
 conversations, except as in ordinary dreaming. 
 
 Sleep may not only become imperfect after having been complete, 
 but it may also be so from the commencement, in consequence of un- 
 favourable circumstances. Thus a person may fall asleep on horseback ; 
 but some of the muscles continue in action sufficiently to preserve the 
 equilibrium, and even to keep hold of the bridle. I have sat. by a 
 coachman who was fast asleep as to his senses, but so far awake as to 
 the motor nerves and muscles, that he remained erect on his box, and 
 did not allow the reins or the whip to fall. It is curious to watch, in 
 such cases, the alternation from sleep to waking ; thus by a jolt of the 
 coach the driver would awake for an instant, be aware of his condition, 
 give the whip a languid flourish, and then go off to sleep again. 
 
 It is, however, well-known that persons may fall asleep even while 
 in the act of walking. This fact was observed among our soldiers in 
 the forced marches during the retreat upon Corunna. The sleep in 
 such cases is partial. 
 
 I should, in connection with this department of my subject, 
 imperfect sleep, here speak of double consciousness ; but before 
 doing so, I must say a few words about waking. 
 
 The process of waking, like that of falling asleep, may be sudden 
 or gradual ; the latter is, perhaps, the most natural change. If we 
 watch a person undergoing it, we may observe him first moving his 
 limbs, then changing his position, then opening his eyes, which how- 
 ever he may close again, and relapse into sleep ; then speaking some 
 incoherent matter, as it seems to us, but no doubt rational to him, 
 and conformable to his dream ; then he gives a sort of answer to some 
 question we have put, but still wide of the mark ; then there is a 
 second opening of the eyes, a stare, a sudden burst of the truth of 
 things, as it seems to us, but to him the exchange of one reality for 
 what was, a moment before, reality to his apprehension, though he 
 now acknowledges that it was all shadowy and fanciful ; then he 
 stretches his limbs, that is, puts them from a state of flexion into one 
 of extension, yawns, perhaps, and says he is still weary, and must 
 sleep again : 
 
 " The messenger approaching to him spake ; 
 
 But his waste words retourned to him in vaine ; 
 So sound he slept that nought mought him awake. 
 Then rudely he him thrust, and pusht with paine,
 
 TRANSITION FROM SLEEP TO WAKING. 159 
 
 "Whereat he 'gan to stretch; but he againe 
 
 Shooke him so hard, that forced him to speake. 
 
 As one then in a dreame, whose dryer braine 
 Is tost with troubled sights and fancies weake, 
 
 He mumbled soft, but would not all his silence breake." 
 SPENSER, C. 1, 42. 
 
 But in other cases the transition from sleep to waking is sudden ; 
 it may be so from a strong desire present when we fell asleep to do 
 something important after rising, which desire recurs to the mind 
 immediately on waking. But sometimes the transition is quick, merely 
 because the sleep was very light. The individual is sometimes uncon- 
 scious of having slept ; after very deep sleep, for instance, when the 
 dreams were so feeble as not to be remembered. When he has slept 
 pretty soundly, he is generally conscious of having done so by the 
 great change of the waking sensations. If his sleep has been uneasy 
 and imperfect, he often denies that he has slept at all. He has been 
 in a quick alternating succession of sleeping and waking states. The 
 sleeping states have been so mixed up with outward sensations, and 
 the waking states have had so much of drowsiness in them, that when 
 he is fairly awake he entertains a strong impression that he has been 
 awake the whole time. The waking impressions run into each other, 
 and give the idea of uninterrupted continuity. Thus, I remember 
 once sleeping uneasily in the house of a medical friend, whose night- 
 bell rang three times in the course of the night, and in the morning I 
 could hardly be convinced that there had not been an incessant ringing 
 of bells the whole time. 
 
 Often we awake, feeling very weary. This may arise from excess 
 of mental action in dreaming, and from unpleasant feelings. But 
 sometimes it is only a residual torpor in the nervo-motor apparatus, 
 which goes off as soon as we are out of bed. At other times, how- 
 ever, it is real languor dependent on the want of nourishment, and is 
 removed immediately by food. Some persons sleep more in a given 
 time than others : that is, the sleep is more complete, and the refresh- 
 ment, consequently, more decided. 
 
 The mental invigoration is sometimes very remarkable. Difficulties 
 which posed the individual when he fell asleep are now resolved in an 
 instant. In Sir W. Scott's Life it is mentioned, that after composing 
 a great number of verses over night he would sometimes come to a 
 point beyond which he could not advance a step ; a refractory rhyme, 
 An entangled plot, or some other poetic stumbling-block. In such
 
 160 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 cases he used to give the matter up, confidently expecting that on 
 the following morning he would be able to surmount the obstacle 
 before leaving his couch ; an expectation which was scarcely ever 
 disappointed. 
 
 Schoolboys used, in my time (I know not what they do now with 
 modern improvements), to con over their lessons immediately before 
 lying down, and on waking the task would be fresh and clear in their 
 memories. It is surprising how rapidly one returns after a sleep, 
 though it may have been spent in the busiest dreaming, to the train of 
 thought that immediately preceded it. On awaking in the morning 
 we take up the thread of a speculation just as we had left it on the 
 mental distaff, when seduced into weaving thoughts of "such stuff as 
 dreams are made of." 
 
 I now return to the consideration of double consciousness. We 
 have seen that the apparatus of speech may awake and act in corres- 
 pondence with the ideas of the dream only, or with those suggested 
 by sounds, the sense of hearing being also awake ; and also that the 
 locomotive apparatus may be in action without the sense of vision, 
 as in the case of the somnambulist who comes in contact with outward 
 objects ; or with a complete power of vision. This latter state abuts 
 immediately on the present topic. The person sees, hears, walks, has, 
 in fact, the ordinary attributes of the waking state, and yet is not 
 awake. He may pass from that condition into ordinary slumber, and 
 then wake up like other people ; or the transition may be from the 
 morbid condition to the ordinary waking state without intermediate 
 sleep. This is double consciousness. 
 
 Of this state I shall adduce two instances. The first is related by 
 Professor Silliman, and quoted by Dr. Prichard. "A lady of. New 
 England, of respectable family, became subject to paroxysms, which 
 came on suddenly, and after continuing an indefinite time, went off as 
 suddenly, leaving her mind perfectly rational. It often happened that 
 when she was engaged in conversation she would stop short in the 
 midst of it, and commence a conversation on some other subject, not 
 having the remotest connection with the previous one ; nor would she 
 advert to that during the paroxysm. When she became natural again, 
 she would pursue the same conversation in which she had been 
 engaged during the lucid interval, beginning where she left off. To 
 such a degree was this carried, that she would complete an unfinished 
 story or sentence, or even an unfinished word. When the next
 
 DOUBLE CONSCIOUSNESS. 161 
 
 paroxysm came on, she would continue the conversation which she had 
 been pursuing in her preceding paroxysms ; so that she appeared as a 
 person might be supposed to do, tvho had two souls, each occasionally 
 ^dormant, and occasionally active, and utterly ignorant of what the 
 other was doing." 
 
 The second example was published by Dr. Dyce, in the Edinburgh 
 Philosophical Transactions, and is quoted by Dr. Abercrombie. " The 
 patient, who was a servant girl, was first attacked by fits of somnolency 
 during the day, which came on with a cloudiness before her eyes and 
 a pain in her head. In these fits she talked of scenes and transactions 
 which appeared to be as in a dream, used to follow her occupations, 
 dressed herself and the children of the family, and laid out a table 
 correctly for breakfast. Being taken to church during the attack, she 
 behaved properly, evidently attended to and was affected by the 
 preacher, so as to shed tears. During the attack her eyelids were 
 generally half-shut ; her eyes sometimes resembled those of a person 
 affected with amaurosis, that is, with a dilated and insensible state of 
 the pupil, but sometimes they were quite natural. She had a dull, 
 vacant look, but when excited knew what was said to her, though she 
 often mistook the speaker : it was observed that she discerned objects 
 which were but faintly illuminated. The paroxysms generally continued 
 about an hour, but she could be roused out of them; and then she 
 yawned and stretched herself, like a person awaking out of sleep. At 
 one time she read distinctly a portion of a book that was presented to 
 her, and she sang much better than in the waking state." 
 
 Dr. Abercrombie thought that no explanation could be found for 
 these cases. It might, therefore, seem rather presumptuous if. we 
 were to attempt anything of the kind : but we shall venture on one or 
 two remarks which may tend to elucidate the sxibject. 
 
 The healthy waking of the mind is the resumption of the form of 
 consciousness which existed previously to sleep. The objects before 
 the eyes have the same aspect and the same associations ; the thoughts 
 return to the same channel ; the occupations of the previous day, and 
 those projected for the ensuing day, are remembered, and there is no 
 confusion of personal identity. But a man may awake up to the out- 
 ward world, and that world is all changed to him. His eyes are open, 
 and his ears catch every sound, and he can feel and handle. But, 
 alas ! how delicate and fragile a thing is perception ! All has gone 
 wrong. He is awake, and he looks around his chamber in which he
 
 162 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 has every day, for years, hailed the morning sunshine. It has once 
 more lighted up his household gods ; and dear familiar faces are 
 anxiously bent on those eyes which look, and yet have no speculation 
 in them ; and gentle voices hail, and condole, and soothe, and number 
 up many a word and name, which but the day before would have been 
 key-notes to his heart's sweetest harmonies ; but all is now jarred and 
 "jangled out of tune." He looks out on a new world projected from 
 his own inner being. By a melancholy power, a fatal gift, of appro- 
 priating and assimilating the real objects perceived by his senses, he 
 takes possession of them, nay, disembodies them, and fuses them into 
 his imaginary creation. And as for those beloved beings who fondly 
 think themselves linked with all his strongest and most tender memories, 
 he takes no more note of them than as they swell that strange fantastic 
 pageant which floats before his bewildered fancy ; they are mere 
 dramatis persona in the mad farce or tragedy which his poor brain is 
 weaving. They are all shadows ; no more the dear flesh-and-blood 
 realities of his heart ; they are metamorphosed into the unsubstantial 
 figments of a distempered imagination. 
 
 What is the explanation of all this ? It is, that all things relatively 
 to the percipient mind are as they seem, : 
 
 " Nothing is ; but all things seem" 
 
 For to seem, is to be seen in a certain relation. No outward sensation 
 is perfectly isolated ; it is always connected with some other, past or 
 present, from which it may take, or to which it may impart its hue, 
 and tone, and character. Perception, as distinguished by metaphysi- 
 cians from sensation, is resolvable into this. The individual we have 
 been describing is awake, but awake with a new consciousness. In 
 the morbid state of his brain, ideas (using this word as representative 
 of the results of internal operations of the mind, as distinguished from 
 those received from without,) have so undue a vivacity and prepon- 
 derance, that outward objects are no longer viewed in their former 
 associations ; they are made subordinate, and mere appendages, as it 
 were, to the internal changes. It is a frightful excess of what, to a 
 certain extent, is often taking place in healthy but powerful minds, 
 which impress their own individuality on the external world. The 
 speculative philosopher who views outward objects in relation to some 
 comprehensive theory elaborated in his own mind, to which he fits all 
 that he sees and hears, is the subject of a somewhat like process of
 
 DOUBLE CONSCIOUSNESS ANALYSED. 163 
 
 thought. So, also, is the creative artist, who does not content himself 
 with barely imitating nature, but who looks at nature through the 
 media of- his peculiar faculties, and, having invested the objects with 
 a beauty and sublimity derived from his own mind, represents them 
 with those forms and colours on the canvas or marble. His own sub- 
 jectivity is first thrown upon the outward world, and then by his art 
 made objective to other eyes. 
 
 From these and like considerations, we can better understand the 
 phenomena of double consciousness. In this unusual state, the indi- 
 vidual, though awake, perceives objects only in relation to the new 
 phase of the mind, which has lost its habitual memories, and emotions, 
 and sentiments, and is the temporary subject of a different group, so 
 different, that they change for the time the mental identity ; for identity 
 is the me, the ego, around which remembered objects and ideas are 
 clustered, while they are at tho same time interpenetrated with an 
 infinite variety of emotions and sentiments, and harmoniously mingled 
 with present perceptions. 
 
 What, then, is the test of healthy waking or consciousness ? To 
 the individual himself, one state is as healthy as the other ; but we, 
 observing him, take a different view. Our test is the correspondence 
 of his perceptions with our own, or with those which ordinary people 
 receive from the external world. Common opinion is the necessary 
 standard. Anaxagoras was thought mad when he told his countrymen 
 that the sun was larger than the Peloponnesus. They could not follow 
 his process of thought ; their minds were not as his mind, nor their 
 knowledge as his knowledge ; therefore, to them he could not but seem 
 insane. And here we cannot help remarking how extremes meet. 
 The sublimest speculations, and even inspirations, seem to lie on the 
 very brink of delirium. In uncivilized nations, the madman has often 
 been venerated, not merely as one under the stroke of heaven, but, 
 also, as one having mysterious access to wisdom withheld from the 
 generality of mankind. But setting aside the rare cases in which one 
 man is wiser than all the world beside, if a person sees the outward 
 world in an entirely different aspect from that of other people, he is 
 unsound. 
 
 The double consciousness, then, is only the alternation of healthy 
 and morbid conditions of mind (lucid and insane oscillations), even 
 though in the morbid state there may be achievements of memory and 
 the other mental faculties not attained to in the waking condition.
 
 164 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 You "will not, I dare say, regret to pass from the clear-obscure of 
 metaphysics into the broad day light of matter ; for we have now to 
 speak of the central nervous organs in reference to sleep. 
 
 You are probably aware that there are two kinds of nerves ; those 
 of sensation, and those of motion. Of the sympatlwtic nerves we have 
 no occasion to speak. The nerves of sensation are connected, either 
 directly, or through the spinal cord, with certain portions of the brain 
 called the sensory ganglia, the chief of which are the corpora quadri- 
 gemina and thalami optici. To these centres of sensation are conveyed 
 the impressions made by outward agents, and here they probably 
 become objects of consciousness. 
 
 The nerves of motion communicate with the spinal cord, the medulla 
 oblongata, the corpora striata, and the cerebellum. 
 
 The sensations formed in the sensory ganglia are transmitted to the 
 hemispherical ganglia, otherwise called cerebral lobes, or brain proper. 
 Here they may be reproduced in the process of memory, and become 
 the materials of those complicated mental operations which belong to 
 imagination, abstraction, reasoning, &c., or be associated with the 
 emotions and higher sentiments of the soul. 
 
 The corpora striata are the centres of volition, and the ideas or 
 wishes generated in the cerebral lobes are carried into effect by the 
 nerves of motion, through the impulses transmitted from the corpora 
 striata to the spinal cord. But there is a close relation between their 
 action and that of the cerebellum, which is the organ whereby the 
 complicated motions, and probably the feelings of equilibration, are 
 co-ordinated in standing, walking, running, &c. 
 
 The medulla oblongata is the centre of those important nerves 
 which govern the vital acts of respiration, as well as of those employed 
 in deglutition. 
 
 The spinal cord, or series of spinal ganglia, so far as it is an inde- 
 pendent source of action, and not a mere conductor of impressions 
 from the nerves of sensation, or of impulses from the centres of 
 volition, is subservient to the functions of the organic life.* 
 
 Having sketched thus briefly the chief divisions of the nervous 
 centres, we can point out their connection with sleep. In healthy or 
 perfect sleep, action is suspended in the sensory ganglia, the corpora 
 striata, the cerebellum, a considerable portion of the hemispherical 
 
 * These anatomical explanations were facilitated by reference to some excellent 
 diagrams drawn for me by my friend, Dr. Brittau.
 
 STATE OF THE NERVOUS CEXTBES IN SLEEP. 165 
 
 ganglia (some portion being employed in dreaming), and those parts 
 of the spinal cord which are used in the transmission of sensational 
 impressions or volitional impulses. The medulla oblongata must not 
 sleep, or respiration would stop. Yet it is probable that between the 
 respiratory movements there are pauses in the action of this nervous 
 organ, like the repose of the heart between its diastole and systole ; 
 but there is no such continuous cessation as corresponds with what we 
 understand as sleep. 
 
 Of imperfect sleep the most common form is sleep-talking. The 
 nerves which animate the vocal muscles are awake, and answer to the 
 ideas and emotions produced in the hemispherical ganglia. In simple 
 sleep-walking, or the minor degree of somnambulism (the senses being 
 still asleep), the cerebellum is awake, and perhaps also the copora 
 striata in some degree, and the related portions of the spinal cord. 
 But in that form of somnambulism in which the subject of it sees and 
 hears, though under the influence of the dream, the parts awake are 
 the sensory ganglia, the corpora striata, portions of the cerebral lobes, 
 the cerebellum, and the related portions of the spinal cord. The 
 difference between this state and that of the ordinary waking condition 
 belongs to the pyschological actions connected with the hemispherical 
 ganglia. 
 
 But what is the change that takes place in the nervous centres 
 when their action is suspended ? A difficult question ; difficult because 
 the mode in which nervous matter subserves its functions is but very 
 imperfectly known. In other words, we know but little of the nature 
 of that action, the remission of which is sleep. Yet all analogy 
 intimates, and actual investigation confirms the hint, that in the 
 active state there is a certain intercourse between the blood and the 
 minute structure of the part, whereby something from the blood is 
 consumed and the nervous matter undergoes chemical transformations. 
 This occurs in all vital action ; and the economy of the frame is such, 
 that this expenditure, or elaboration, is not going on at the same time 
 in all parts of the body. In excessive action of any of our organs 
 there is a drain on the rest of the system, so that if the emotions and 
 the will, or strong outward causes of excitement, keep the sensory and 
 hemispherical ganglia at work, when they ought to rest, not only must 
 these organs suffer, but the whole body must be more or less deranged. 
 Of course I am aware that many frames feel this much more than 
 others. But that in the waking state, unduly prolonged, there is a
 
 166 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 great consumption, not only of what we vaguely call power , but also of 
 real material, is obvious from the fact that considerable loss of flesh 
 will ensue, and to an extent greater than can be explained by mere 
 derangement of the digestive functions. And, on the other hand, in 
 those who indulge too freely in sleep there is a manifest tendency to 
 plethora and obesity. Recent chemical researches have proved that 
 " sensation, motion, and thought are as closely connected with certain 
 processes of oxidation going on in the body, as the light and heat of 
 flame are connected with the oxidation of the burning materials ; and 
 also that narcotic vapours, like chloroform and ether, have the effect 
 of retarding, or arresting, these processes of oxidation."* In sleep, 
 then, there is a spontaneous suspension of those changes. You will 
 not infer from these remarks that cerebral functions are mere chemical 
 processes ; but only that these are the physical changes in the parts 
 instrumental to the operations of the immaterial principle. 
 
 The nearest approximation, then, towards an answer to our ques- 
 tion is, perhaps, this ; that natural sleep is the result of exhausted 
 action in certain portions of the nervous system ; that time is required 
 for refitting the materials of the nervous structure itself, that is, of the 
 matter which is to be oxidated, as well as for recruiting the blood ; 
 and that no more intercourse can take place between the blood and the 
 specially vital function of the nervous matter, without the consumption 
 of what is required by other parts of the body. 
 
 But though this is the ultimate change in natural sleep, the sleep- 
 ing condition may be induced with but a very small degree of such 
 change, by the mere influence of subsidiary circumstances, some of 
 which, like narcotics, are altogether artificial, while others may be 
 reckoned as natural auxiliaries. 
 
 Of these we have now to speak, and the first that I shall notice is 
 vascular pressure. It is familiarly known that compression will 
 benumb the sensibility of a nerve, as in a limb resting on the edge 
 of a hard seat. Analogy would lead us to expect a like result from 
 compression of the nervous centres. But independently of analogy, 
 we know it to be the fact from various circumstances. Thus, a man 
 had lost a portion of his skull by an accident, and the brain, being 
 only covered by soft parts, could be easily subjected to pressure ; and 
 at any time he could be sent to sleep by gentle pressure of the finger 
 on this portion of the head. Again, there are certain diseases in which 
 * Dr. Snow on the Action of Narcotic Vapours. Medical Gazette, April, 11, 1851.
 
 SLEEP INDUCED BY PRESSURE ON THE BRAIN. 167 
 
 the brain, pent up in its bony case, is liable to pressure. It may be 
 from excessive fulness of the blood vessels themselves, constituting one 
 kind of apoplexy, which is the extreme of morbid sleep ; or it may 
 be from blood poured out of a ruptured vessel into the brain or its 
 cavities ; or it may be the increase of a thin fluid, called the cerebro- 
 spinal fluid, which fills the cavities of the brain, and surrounds its 
 outer surface, as well as that of the spinal cord. The morbid accu- 
 mulation of this fluid is " water on the brain," and the existence of 
 the disease is often denoted by extreme somnolence, which passes into 
 what is technically called coma, that is complete insensibility. 
 
 From facts of this kind, then, it may be urged that as sleep resem- 
 bles these states, and is indeed a minor and transient form of that 
 abolition of cerebral functions which belongs to them all, it is probable 
 that sleep has a like causation, and that before its accession a certain 
 amount of pressure takes place in the brain. This seems still more 
 probable, when we observe that people are prone to drowsiness if the 
 system is plethoric, and, also, that recumbence is the natural inducement 
 to sleep ; the effect of lying down being to retard the return of blood 
 from the head, and so to produce some relative fulness of the vessels. 
 This state, however, is not essential to sleep, for persons may slumber 
 in the upright posture, though few can do so soundly. There is, then, 
 very abundant reason for believing that a moderate degree of pressure 
 on the brain is a natural disposer to sleep. But this fact has been so 
 strongly pressed on the minds of two physiologists, that they have 
 imagined that there is a special provision for the production of vascular 
 pressure. Thus Dr. Osborne, of Dublin, in a very ingenious paper 
 published some years ago,* endeavours to show that the choroid plexus 
 is the organ of sleep. Now, the objection to this view is, that there is 
 no proof that these vessels are particularly distensible or susceptible of 
 any such degree of fulness as to warrant our supposing them to have 
 this function, though their situation, lying as they do upon the sensory 
 ganglia, seems to me to be favourable to Dr. Osborne's hypothesis. 
 
 Dr. Marshall Hall, to whom the modern physiology of the nervous 
 system is so much indebted, had a notion that a spasm occurs in the 
 deep-seated muscles of the neck, before the supervention of sleep ; 
 and that the muscles in this contraction compress the veins, and so 
 produce a temporary turgescence of the vessels of the brain. But it is 
 yet to be proved that this occurs as one of the antecedents of ordinary 
 sleep, however true it may be as to morbid conditions. 
 
 * Medical Gazette, June, 1849.
 
 168 SLEEP AXD DREAMS. 
 
 We now pass on to the consideration of other circumstances favour- 
 able to sleep. After what we have said about the proximate cause, it 
 is almost superfluous to remark, that one of the natural antecedents is 
 a certain amount of exercise of the brain. Its repose is the con- 
 sequence of its exertion. But in different individuals we observe 
 great differences, as to the amount of exertion necessary to induce this 
 tendency to inaction. Some have so sluggish a nervous system, so 
 little propensity to spontaneous action, that if they are only not 
 stimulated into wakefulness, they are perpetually dozing. In others, 
 the nervous activity is so marked, that it is only after strong and pro- 
 longed exertion of mind that sleep visits their eyelids. Minds of 
 equal capacity, acuteness, and vigour, may vary extremely in their 
 capability of sustaining labour and diminution of repose. Those who 
 enjoy a very robust cerebral organization, require a greater amount of 
 mental labour to tire them down sufficiently for sleep ; and they are 
 refreshed by an amount of sleep quite inadequate to the wants of others. 
 It is impossible to lay down a law inclusive of all individualities in 
 this particular. I have known a person of very active mind and 
 literary habits unable to sleep when leading the life of a sportsman, 
 simply because, though he was fatiguing his muscular system, he had 
 not worked the percipient and reasoning parts of his brain sufficiently ; 
 so that when his limbs were at rest in bed, his brain did not choose to 
 take the same time for repose. It had been slumbering all day. I 
 need not remark that this individual enjoyed an unusual degree of 
 cerebral activity. Many a weary statesman and philosopher would 
 sleep under like circumstances, the brain being ready for slumber 
 whenever it has an opportunity. But there is an altogether different 
 result of successive mental fatigue not unfrequently met with. In 
 common language, a person goes to bed too weary to sleep. In this 
 state, the overaction of the organ continues ; it cannot pass into the 
 natural alternation of inactivity, and it is probable that the cause is to 
 be found in the local circulation. Blood having been attracted to the 
 brain with too much vehemence, and for too long a time, the self- 
 adjustments with which the vessels are provided cannot come at once 
 into action. The vessels cannot at once resume their former dimen- 
 sions, and the flow through them continues in the same quantity. We 
 see this in other parts of the body. If the eye has been subjected to 
 an inordinate amount of light, and for too long a time, the vessels which 
 had been unduly injected remain in this state for some time after the 
 light has been withdrawn. Or without taking the vessels into account,
 
 CEREBRAL FATIGUE FAVOURABLE TO SLEEP. 169 
 
 we have another proof of the same thing, in the luminous impression 
 which remains on the retina. 
 
 And here I may remark, as a convenient place for the observation, 
 that the brain, like the optic nerve, does not readily part with impres- 
 sions of great vividness, so as to lapse into sleep ; or if sleep does 
 come on, the ideas still continue unaltered. How common it is for 
 persons to say that they have been too much excited to sleep. New 
 company, intensely interesting conversation, new sights, unexpected 
 intelligence, &c., are all sufficient to prevent the accession of sleep, by 
 reason of the unusual vividness of the impressions, the vividness 
 being dependent on their nature, or their degree, or their mere novelty ;- 
 a new impression being cceteris paribus, more vivid than one repeated. 
 A person cannot sleep away from home. This may generally be traced 
 to the fresh objects and impressions. But some aver that they cannot 
 sleep in a strange bed, without reference at all to the preceding or 
 accompanying circumstances, or to the comfort or discomfort of the bed ; 
 and I do not disbelieve them. The sensibility of some persons is no 
 measure for that of others, as to the corporeal functions, any more 
 than as to mental conditions. A new bed may, in its arrangements, 
 make a number of new impressions on the cutaneous nerves not possible 
 to be individually specified ; but, in the aggregate, bringing an amount 
 of new and vivid sensation to the brain, incompatible with the super- 
 vention of sleep. 
 
 To return. For natural sleep, a certain wholesome amount of 
 cerebral fatigue is necessary. To enter upon all the auxiliary or 
 interfering agencies would take me into a discussion far too protracted ; 
 and I am treating the subject in its scientific, rather than in its practical 
 aspects. A very few words may suffice. 
 
 The effect of posture was touched upon when we spoke of the blood 
 vessels, in relation to the nervous centres. I shall now add, that 
 general plethora tends to somnolency by the pressure on the brain, and 
 that this must not be confounded with the effect of excited capillary 
 circulation, which causes excessive functional activity of the brain, and 
 sometimes obliges the subject of it to support the head on higher 
 pillows than what are ordinarily used. 
 
 The influence of food is matter of common remark, and, at first 
 sight, seems to be beset with many anomalies and incongruities. Early 
 dinners or late dinners, supper or no supper, these have their respec- 
 tive advocates. To me the truth of this matter is comprehended in a 
 small compass. During the process of digestion, the brain, unless
 
 170 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 stimulated by alcoholic liquids, is disposed to quiescence by that law 
 of balance of function to which I have already adverted. There is a 
 diversion of vital energy (through the nerves and blood vessels), from 
 the brain to the stomach. Sleep in this state is natural, and comports 
 with what we observe in the lower animals. Yet we must take care 
 not to rush at once to the conclusion that it is well to take a nap after 
 dinner, and to eat a good supper before retiring to rest. Our whole 
 mode of life, in modern civilization, has become so artificial, that there 
 is need of constant compromise and conciliation. No rule can be laid 
 down without a knowledge of the health and habits of the individual. 
 Digestion is sometimes absolutely disturbing to sleep. When it is 
 accomplished with difficulty, morbid impressions on the nerves of the 
 stomach reverberate in the brain, keeping it awake, or suggesting 
 strange or even miserable dreams. On the other hand, the nerves of 
 the stomach instead of fretting over their work, may be unhappy for 
 want of occupation, and their cravings also echo in the brain, and 
 disquiet that noble organ ! Or without these importunate complainings 
 from the stomach, the brain goes on working, simply because it is 
 enjoying a monopoly of vital energy, while the other has no employ- 
 ment. The very heavy and all but apoplectic sleep of those whose 
 hands have been too generous to their mouths, has its cause in the 
 pressure on the brain, induced by the over-filled blood vessels, to say 
 nothing of the direct narcotic influence of some of the ingredients. 
 But this is a subject too humiliating to the higher part of human 
 nature to deserve consideration in the transactions of an institution 
 devoted to Philosophy, Literature, and the Fine Arts, and therefore I 
 shall say no more about it ! 
 
 Though sleep is usually promoted by the absence of light and sound, 
 a certain amount of either may be necessary. A person accustomed 
 to a light in the room, may be unable to sleep without it, nay, to 
 awake if it is withdrawn. And wakefulness may be induced by the 
 subsidence of an accustomed noise ; the habitual loss of the impression 
 on the sensory nerve being tantamount to a new impression, because 
 the nerve is in an unusual condition. 
 
 But some sounds are absolutely lulling. Unvarying sounds are 
 generally so; "the droning flight" of the beetle; the "drowsy 
 tinkling " of the sheep-bell ; the rippling of water ; the sighing of the 
 wind among trees and sedge ; the deep boom of the sea ; or, as old 
 Burton says, " to have a basin of water still dropping by one's bed- 
 side, or to lye near that pleasant murmur, lene sonantis aqua, some
 
 OTHER CONDITIONS THAT INDUCE SLEEP. 171 
 
 flood-gates, arches, falls of water, like London bridge, or some continual 
 noise which may benumb the senses." 
 
 This effect is prettily described by Spenser : 
 " And more to lull him in his slumber soft, 
 A trickling stream, from high rock tumbling downe, 
 
 And ever drizzling rain upon the loft, 
 Mixed with a murmuring winde, much like the soune 
 Of swarming bees, did cast him in a swoune." 
 
 C. L, Stanza 41. 
 
 Not only undulating sounds, but also undulating sights conduce greatly 
 to sleep. Those regular and almost rhythmical movements of the 
 hands before the eyes, sometimes practised by magnetizers, have a 
 stupifying effect, and induce sleep, though it is usually of an imperfect 
 kind, like that of the somnambulist, and, as such, productive of strange 
 phenomena in the nervous system, which prove very exciting to the 
 speculations .and fancies of those who delight in mysticism. Gentle 
 friction of the skin, inducing, as in the other cases, a succession of 
 uniform impressions, is also very sedative. 
 
 Dull monotonous thoughts suggesting no lively images, no sallies 
 of wit, no "fancies fine," no manoeuvres of reasoning, should be 
 encouraged by him who is anxious for sleep. Let him read or listen 
 to a stupid author, not stupid enough however to irritate him, or let 
 him count by simple numeration, or say over to himself some droning 
 
 rhyme. 
 
 " Oh ! dearest lady, rest your gentle head 
 
 Upon my lap, and try to sleep awhile ; 
 
 Your eyes look pale, hollow, and over- worn 
 
 With heaviness of watching and slow grief. 
 
 Come, I will sing you some low, sleepy tune, 
 
 Not cheerful, nor yet sad ; some dull old thing, 
 
 Some outworn and unused monotony ; 
 
 Such as our country gossips sing and spin, 
 
 Till they almost forget thej- live." 
 
 These different methods of inducing sleep have all one element in 
 common, that of annulling the sensibility of a nerve, or a portion of 
 the brain, by the mere repetition or, rather, the continuance of a single 
 impression, or of a single group of impressions.* The retina kept by 
 
 * The following method of procuring sleep at will is recommended by Dr. Binns. 
 -(Anatomy of Sleep, p. 435. ) 
 
 " Let the patient turn on his right side, place his head comfortably on the pillow, 
 so that it exactly occupies the angle a line drawn from the head to the shoulder 
 would form, and then slightly closing his lips, take rather a full inspiration, breathing 
 as much as he possibly can through the nostrils. This, however, is not absolutely 
 necessary, as some persons breathe always through their mouths during sleep, and
 
 172 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 a strong act of the will fixed on a particular point, will become tempo- 
 rarily blind; and by that wonderful sympathy so marked in the 
 nervous system, the inaction so induced will extend to the other parts 
 of the sensorium, and the individual will fall into what Mr. Braid 
 calls Hypnotism. The continuance of one unvarying sound, as we 
 have before remarked, has a like effect. Between the repetitions of 
 the sound there must not be an interval sufficient for the recover)- of 
 sensibility in the nerve, else the effect may be quite reversed. Thus, 
 I remember a lady told me that one kind of sound which old Burton 
 speaks of, had anything but a soothing influence. I had directed her 
 to take a shower bath before getting into bed. Some of the water 
 left in the reservoir dripped into the tin vessel at the bottom. At first, 
 she thought this sound would lull her ; but the intervals were too long. 
 She was either nervously expecting the next drop, or, when it came, it 
 came as a new impression, and roused her up ; so that^ as she said, 
 instead of sending her to sleep, it drove her almost mad. There must, 
 then, be a certain continuity of sound. And the same applies to all 
 images in the mind. I have found nothing answer better than 
 imagining one's self floating on a vast expanse of water ; or, trying 
 to image to one's self the Pacific Ocean, and fancying we are sailing 
 upon it, while 
 
 " The sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, 
 Lie like a load on the weary eye." 
 
 It is interesting to observe that whenever the poets are engaged in 
 describing the objects around sleepers, they not only by their instinct 
 or inspiration assemble objects more or less fixed and unvarying in 
 form and hue, together with motions of great sameness, but their very 
 
 rest as sound as those who do not. Having taken a full inspiration, the lungs are 
 then to be left to their own action, that is, the respiration is neither to he accelerated 
 nor retarded too much ; but a very full inspiration must be taken. The attention 
 must now be fixed upon the action in which the patient is engaged. He must depict 
 to himself that he sees the breath passing from the nostrils in a continuous stream, 
 and the very instant that he brings his mind to conceive this apart from all other 
 ideas, consciousness and memory depart ; imagination slumbers ; fancy becomes 
 dormant ; thought ceases ; the sentient faculties lose their susceptibility ; the vital 
 or ganglionic system assumes the sovereignty ; and, as we before remarked, he no 
 longer wakes, but sleeps. For the instant the mind is brought to the contemplation- 
 of a single sensation, that instant the sensorium abdicates the throne, and the 
 hypnotic faculty steeps it in oblivion. It will happen, sometimes, that the patient 
 does not succeed on the first attempt. But he must not be discouraged. Let Mm 
 persevere, taking in full inspirations and expirations for thirty or forty times, 
 without attempting to count them, for if he does, the act of numeration will keep 
 him awake ; and even should he not succeed in inducing very sound sleep, he will, 
 at least, fall into that state of pleasing delirium which is precursory of repose, and 
 which is scarcely inferior to it. Many trials have satisfied us of this."
 
 STRONG EMOTION DESTROYS SLEEP. 173 
 
 metre falls into monotony, or the repetition of like sounds. Thus, 
 Tennyson, in the " Lotos Eaters " : 
 
 " ' Courage," lie said, and pointed to the strand ; 
 
 ' This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." 
 In the afternoon they came unto a land 
 
 In which it seemed always afternoon ; 
 All round the coast the languid air did swoon, 
 
 Breathing like one that hath a weary dream ; . 
 
 Full-faced above the valley stood the moon ; 
 
 And, like a downward smoke, the slender stream 
 Along the cliff to fall, and pause, and fall did seem." 
 
 But all corporeal or physical auxiliaries, darkness, or a soft 
 subdued light, silence, or lulling murmurs, the langour of gentle 
 fatigue, a well-adjusted couch, a familiar chamber, and a sound 
 digestion, all these will be of no avail if he, who courts the oblivion 
 of slumber, lies down under the sway of some strong emotion. The 
 mere intellect may yield up its most favourite speculations or remem- 
 brances to the sleepy time and influences ; but the passions are not so 
 easily hushed, and their vigils are extended to every part of the 
 system. The throbbings of the heart, the pantings of the respira- 
 tion, the watchful ear, the searching eye, the tortured memory, 
 rfhe busy fane}*, the harassed judgment, all give tokens of the spell 
 by which they are bound : 
 
 " Not poppy, nor mandragora, 
 Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world, 
 Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep 
 Which thou own'dst yesterday." 
 
 Therefore, he who would sleep well should join in the prayer of Dr. 
 Johnson, for 
 
 " Obedien^, passions and a will resigned." 
 
 Add to these the calming influence of a conscience void of offence 
 towards God, and towards man, and we are in possession of the best 
 mental preparation for gentle slumber. " When Ptolemy, king of 
 Egypt," says an old writer, " had posed the seventy interpreters in 
 order, and asked the nineteenth man what would make one sleep 
 quietly in the night, he told him the best way was to have divine and 
 celestial meditations, and to use honest actions in the day-time." 
 
 Our last question is, What is the final cause of sleep ? Why should 
 the senses and voluntary motions be suspended? Why have they 
 not been allowed to continue uninterrupted, like the pulsations of the 
 heart, and the action of other organs ? But, after all, no organs of
 
 174 SLEEP AND DKEAMS. 
 
 the body are really sleepless. The heart, in the midst of its seemingly 
 continuous pulsations, has its halt. The lungs rest at the end of every 
 expiration. The stomach is not, or ought not to be, always at work. 
 The great difference is, that while the organs of the vegetable life- 
 take their repose in snatches, frequently returning, those of relative 
 life have long spells of sleep, and then uninterrupted work. But 
 without dwelling on this view, it would be easy to shew that were 
 sleep abolished, the whole economy of the body would require to be 
 altered. Were the nervous organs of sensation and voluntary motion 
 to continue in unslackened exercise, they must have a corresponding 
 supply of blood ; but as that which must then be expended upon them 
 could not be applied to the wants of other organs, as is now the case 
 in sleep, a greater quantity of blood must be formed. This require- 
 ment must entail a change in the dimensions and qualities of the 
 blood vessels, in the propulsive powers of the heart, and a change in 
 the apparatus of respiration. But the formation of the increased 
 quantity must engender the need of increased digestion and assimi- 
 lation ; and the organs devoted to these functions would require an 
 increase in their extent and endowments, not only for their greater 
 amount of function, but also because they would no longer perform it 
 under the present favourable circumstances, incident to the state of 
 repose. Many other illustrations might be given of the disturbance 
 which must occur in the whole of the present system. Supposing, 
 however, that such a change were effected, and the animal organization 
 moulded on an entirely new plan, how would it stand in relation to the 
 circumstances in which it exists ? More food would be required ; and, 
 in many cases, this is by no means more than adequate to the present 
 need of both man and animals. More air must be consumed. And it 
 is questionable whether, to the supposed .sleepless organisms, the 
 present density of the atmosphere and proportion of oxygen would be 
 adequate. Whether such consumers, and, I might add, vitiators of 
 air could be as gregarious and social, might be doubted. But without 
 dwelling upon any other arrangement of external nature than that of 
 darkness, this surely would be enough to shew the harmony subsisting 
 between the sleep of animals and the media of their existence. For 
 the exceptions in the case of predatory mammalia, or of animals which 
 in their burrows and caverns have, even in the day-time, a night 
 spread around them, are trifling in comparison with the hordes that 
 toil and bask and sport in the sunshine. How would the hours of 
 night pass to animals capable of sense and motion, yet debarred from
 
 THE BENEFITS OF SLEEP. 175 
 
 the exercise of them, and having no such resources as belong to 
 reflective man under similar circumstances? But not to press the 
 argument further, we might ask what would be gained by this ever- 
 vigilant state ? It may be suggested that there would be more time 
 for man to work in, to do his mighty deeds, to realize his visions of 
 glory and his schemes of benevolence. For the lower animals, more 
 time to feel the pleasures of their limited existence, and to enjoy the 
 exercise of such faculties as they possess. But, is the feeling of 
 existence in these beings always one of pleasure ? Are their powers 
 always exerted with delight ? Would it be a gain to the timid deer, 
 that their fleetness should unceasingly be called into action to elude 
 the chase of the sleepless wolf ? Would it add to the happiness of the 
 gentle dove, to expect the downward swoop of the hawk in the night 
 as well as day ? And are man's thoughts so free from evil, that they 
 could be trusted to engender actions all the livelong hours ? Surely it 
 is better that the hand of the violent man should be stayed by sleep's 
 soft compulsion. Better that the busy, plotting brain, devising mis- 
 chief, should be caught and entangled in its own dreamy meshes. 
 Better that the lips of the tyrant should be sealed for a few hours, for 
 mercy instead of doom may drop from them after the night's calm and 
 refreshment. Better that the world should have a respite, if not a 
 reprieve, from the horrors that await the waking of armed men. It is 
 something gained if only a few hours are saved before the sky is red 
 with the light of flaming cities, and the air afflicted with groans and 
 wailings, and curses and war-cries. 
 
 But we need not contemplate sleep as the mere interruption of 
 deeds of crime and scenes of violence. Its associations have more of 
 gentleness than of terror. To sleep is to pause from the hurrying 
 whirl of life ; to rest after all its toil, and struggle, and agitation ; to 
 see no sights of pain and grief, and " all the ill things that are done 
 i' the sun ; " to hear no sighs, " no stifled sobs, no loud lament ; " to 
 forget all cares, and losses, and heart-aches. It is, in fact, to fall into 
 a state which seems to comprehend within it all that is most gentle and 
 soothing in idea an epitome of pathos, an ever-recurring text of 
 mercy and type of tenderness, an armistice between the contending 
 powers of good and evil, a relaxation of the 
 
 " dead strife 
 
 Of poor humanity's afflicted will, 
 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny."
 
 176 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 In this merciful state, perhaps a third part of an existence, the 
 prisoner may be for awhile set free, and the mourner no longer 
 remember that he has cause to weep ; the exile may visit the home 
 and the pleasant fields he has left for ever ; and the living may once 
 more meet the dead, and forget that they are the dead. Nor let it be 
 rashly interposed, what boots it that we have such cheering and sooth- 
 ing visions, if we awake and find them all shadows ? For we may ask 
 in return, would any one repel the approach of happy prosperous 
 hours, because they must pass away, and sharpen our after-perception 
 of crosses and sorrows which cannot be kept aloof? In one sense we 
 may say, " is not the past all shadow?" And when we awake from 
 the slumber of death to the realities of a future existence, this life, 
 except for its influence on our destiny, may seem as if it had been 
 spent in one of the many districts of dream-land. 
 
 In sickness, no language can exaggerate the blessed exchange, 
 when the frame, racked by pain, shattered by convulsions, cramped by 
 spasms, worn with long hours of restlessness, sometimes worse than 
 actual pain, sinks at last into quiet slumber. So slept Beatrice 
 Cenci : 
 
 " How gently slumber rests upon her face, 
 
 Like the last thoughts of some day sweetly speut, 
 
 Closing in night and dreams, and so prolonged. 
 
 After such torments as she bore last night, 
 
 How light and soft her breathing comes ! 
 
 But I must shake the heavenly dew of rest 
 
 From this sweet folded flower." 
 
 But lastly, there are benefits over and above this healing operation 
 of sleep. While the bodily organs are infused with new vigour, the 
 sensibility to all delightful influences of earth and sky is redoubled ; 
 and the mental faculties, however borne down by previous toil, are 
 again buoyant and elastic. The reason is cleared and refreshed by 
 mere rest ; and the imagination has been supplied with new materials 
 for its operations, so that poets and romance writers have actually 
 sought in sleep and dreams for the replenishing of their stores. But 
 I know scarcely any intellectual advantage derived from sleep, more 
 decided than the healthy tone which it gives to subsequent thought. 
 It cools down the feverish imagination of the evening ; sweeps away 
 the flimsy over- subtilized webs of metaphysical speculation ; subdues 
 : the morbid apprehensions of the over night ; and changes the sickly 
 sensibility to human ills, the shrinking from humanity and its wicked-
 
 DREAMING AND WAKING. 177 
 
 ness and infirmities, for an active sympathy with, suffering man, a 
 courageous desire to know the worst, and a robust resolution to 
 encounter whatever may be painful or revolting in the paths of 
 benevolence. 
 
 But it is superfluous to dwell upon these points, when we have a 
 passage, from the greatest of poets, that sums up all the benign and 
 healthful influences of sleep : 
 
 " Sleep, the innocent sleep, 
 
 Sleep that knits up the ravelled sleeve of care ; 
 
 The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath ; 
 
 Balm of hurt minds ; great nature's second course ; 
 
 Chief nourisher in life's feast." 
 
 [In the foregoing lecture magnetic sleep was barely alluded to. Had we discussed 
 the subject at all, we must have traversed the domains of Mesmerism, Clairvoyance, 
 Electro-Biology, Electro-Psychology, Etherio-Biology and what I dare say will some 
 day be called Odylo-Biology ! Dubious regions, dimly -lighted, phantom-peopled ! 
 where 
 
 " Truth that is, and truth that seems, 
 Blend in fantastic strife." 
 
 To weigh, and sift, and test all the statements of doctrines connected with these 
 subjects, and to determine what should be received, and what rejected, in the 
 marvellous stories familiar to every body through the newspapers and journals, 
 would be a long work, for which I have little leisure, less liking, and no vocation. 
 And I doubt if anything worthy of observation could be added to the judgment 
 delivered some years ago by Sir John Forbes, in an admirable little work, entitled 
 " Mesmerism True, Mesmerism False."] 
 
 II. 
 
 IN our inquiry into the nature of Dreaming, the simplest, and, I think, 
 the most philosophical course will be to ascertain, in the first instance, 
 what the state of the mind in dreaming has in common with its waking 
 condition, and then to proceed to consider the differences between them. 
 Every one, no matter how little accustomed to the analysis of his- 
 thoughts and feelings, must have noticed that a large proportion of the 
 materials of dreams are derived from past experience ; that they are 
 the products of a kind of memory ; but that they are often put together
 
 78 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 in odd combinations, not unlike the effects of a wanton or \vilful ima- 
 gination during the waking hours. 
 
 To pursue the proposed order of investigation, it will be necessary, 
 even at the risk of being somewhat tedious, or of speaking of things 
 already sufficiently familiar to my audience, to make one or two 
 remarks upon memory and imagination. 
 
 The simplest form of memory is the mere reproduction of a sensa- 
 tion, or the return of a thought, or of a former emotion to the mind. 
 When the recurrence of certain feelings and ideas is brought about by 
 an effort of the will, such act of the mind is denominated recollection. 
 But when the past images come unbidden, we say that they are the 
 products of mere remembrance. So that there are two kinds of memory, 
 the one passive, the other active. When the mind exists in its most 
 listless state, past impressions and ideas, though of the faintest descrip- 
 tion, are revived in continuous succession. If the eyes are shut, and 
 no sounds prevailing, these images may be almost unmingled with 
 present perceptions, unless the internal organs give rise to uneasy 
 sensations. But even when a full tide of fresh perceptions are rushing 
 through the senses, they do not prevent the recurrence of by -gone 
 images and emotions ; on the contrary, as we shall see presently, they 
 have a direct tendency to revive such images and emotions, and, in so 
 doing, they often greatly enhance the pleasure or the pain of the 
 present moment. 
 
 In active memory, we command the return of former impressions. 
 It is true that these shadows of the past do not always come at our 
 bidding ; we may " call them from the vasty deep " of old experience, 
 but they will not always answer. In exercising what dominion we 
 have over them, we, however, do but subject them to the same laws as 
 those which regulate the phenomena of passive memory, the laws 
 of association or suggestion. To take one of the least complex of 
 instances. If I wish to recall the name of an absent person, I fix my 
 mind attentively on his image ; and then the place in which I last saw 
 him, the time, the contemporary circumstances, and the conversation 
 of other persons will also return to my mind, and very possibly bring in 
 their train the name which was not suggested by the first presentation 
 of his image. In a similar manner we recall a subject of discourse. 
 In conversation we are sometimes interrupted, and, after the disturbing 
 cause has ceased, we wish to take up the thread where it was broken 
 off ; but to find it, we may be obliged to go back to a much earlier
 
 MEMORY ASSOCIATION IMAGINATION. 179 
 
 period in the conversation, and then the subsequent topics recur by 
 means of those links'of association which first brought them together. 
 It would obviously be quite out of my province to enter on the wide 
 subject of the principles of association or suggestion ; it will be suffi- 
 cient to remark, that ideas, meaning by this word those states o^ 
 consciousness not immediately produced by outward sensations, suggest 
 one another, sometimes from the mere fact of their having formerly 
 coexisted ; sometimes from their similarity ; sometimes from their con- 
 trast, as when the idea of a dwarf suggests that of a giant ; and 
 sometimes from proximity of place. At other times the connections 
 are of a less casual nature. Such are the relations of analogy, of 
 proportion, of cause and effect. I am aware that most of these 
 principles may by a refined analysis be resolved into mere association 
 or proximal succession. I must not omit to remark, that not only the 
 ideas are renewed in this manner, but also the various emotions that 
 have been formerly associated with them ; and, likewise, that they are 
 liable to be summoned before us not only by other ideas, but, likewise, 
 by present sensations, whether derived from without, or from the 
 internal organs. And here we must notice an interesting fact which 
 bears importantly on the subject of this lecture, namely, that impres- 
 sions may be made on the sentient nerves which, although they do not 
 give rise to perceptions, will excite in the mind ideas and emotions 
 either painful or pleasurable. Thus, there are various forms of indi- 
 gestion, which may produce the most distressing states of mind, filling 
 it with all kinds of gloomy ideas, and yet not give rise to sensations, 
 in the strict sense of the word. 
 
 The operations of fancy and imagination may be analysed into 
 ideas suggested on some one of the principles of association to which 
 I have adverted. Fancy is generally understood as the faculty which 
 calls up related images ; though they are often connected so slightly 
 with the first thoughts, that to many minds they never occur at all ; 
 and they are such, for the most part, as produce sentiments of the 
 beautiful, the sublime, the ludicrous, or the terrible. Persons are said 
 to have a quick fancy, in whom remote ideas are readily brought 
 together. Imagination is often used synonymously with fancy ; but it 
 is a faculty of a higher description. It not only, like fancy, brings 
 together many striking images and thoughts, and combines them in 
 new groups which have the most agreeable or painful effect on the 
 mind, but it so combines them as to produce images of persons and 
 places and things, that seem to be newly created.
 
 180 SLEEP AND DKEAMS. 
 
 The products of imagination are not, like those of fancy, loosely 
 aggregated, so that they can be seen at once to be new combinations 
 of old materials, but they are so artificially interwoven, and all in such, 
 keeping and consistency, that they seem to be struck out at once as 
 new individuals. Hence, the possessors of the highest form of imagi- 
 nation might well be called poets, literally makers. But even in the 
 dullest and least poetic, these so-called faculties may be at work. 
 There is indeed the same distinction to be drawn between active and 
 passive fancy and imagination, as between active and passive memory. 
 In the course of our investigation we shall find sufficient illustration 
 of the fact to which I have last adverted. 
 
 Having made these prefatory observations, which to many present 
 may have appeared too obvious and familiar for mention, but which I 
 have introduced on the presumption that some of my younger hearers 
 may not have had it in their power to pay attention even to these bare 
 rudiments of mental philosophy, I proceed to consider what there is in 
 common between the processes of thought in sleep, and those in our 
 waking hours. 
 
 A very considerable majority of revived impressions consist of 
 objects of sight, so that some have even asserted that we never dream 
 of anything else. But this is obviously a great misapprehension ; for, 
 independently of the fact that the persons whose forms appear to the 
 dreamer frequently seem to converse with him, it might be proved 
 from the ideas and feelings associated with the visual reproduction 
 that something more than the impression of sight recurs to the mind. 
 When the friend of by-gone times revisits us in sleep, we do not 
 recognize his form merely as one that had been seen before ; but with 
 its presence return some at least of the occurrences in his life, the 
 points in his character, his sentiments, and familiar talk. !?o far is it 
 from being true, that visual images only are produced in dreams, that 
 it often happens that the remains of several sensations are simul- 
 taneously renewed. "While our eyes seem to be feasting on the most 
 glorious scenery of mountains, forests, rivers, and ocean, we may at 
 the same time hear the roar of thunder, the songs of birds, the rushing 
 of torrents, or the deep boom of the tide on the shore ; we may inhale 
 the fragrance of flowers, feel the soft breath of the sea-breeze, and 
 hear the voice of the companion who sympathizes in our pleasure. 
 
 Still, it must be allowed that as the perceptions of the organ of 
 sight are the most frequent and vivid of our waking sensations, so 
 they abound most in our dreams. There is great variety in the mode
 
 INVOLUNTARY CREATIVENESS IN DREAMING. 181 
 
 of their reproduction. They may arise as mere copies of former 
 visions ; or, to speak more correctly, the individual conceptions may 
 appear in the same groups as when they were first presented to us ; or 
 they may be assembled so differently, as to produce the effect of entire 
 novelty. In the first instance, the dreamer may renew his youth, 
 breathing once more the air of his birth-place, and once more immersed 
 in the joys or transient sorrows of those early days ; or he may re-enact 
 the toils of his manhood ; and all the stirring exertions, or the weari- 
 ness and solicitude, of his daily avocations may recur in dreams, so 
 that the days are again lived over in the nights. In the other instance, 
 the mind may be recreated by visions of fairy scenes and unearthly 
 forms, such as his waking eye never beheld ; or it may be haunted by 
 combinations of forms more hideous than were ever conceived even by 
 an artist of the hag-ridden middle ages. These new assemblages of 
 former impressions "would exemplify the process of thought which we 
 call imagination in our waking hours, only that the mind is quite 
 passive. It does not actively and artificially work up the old materials 
 into new forms, under the command of the will or desire, but the forms 
 are forced upon it whether wished for or not. Many minds would be 
 quite unable, however much they might try, to call up before their 
 mental eyes such scenes and forms as appeared to them in sleep. But 
 the man of genius is distinguished by his capability of effecting such 
 combinations for a particular purpose. It is true that they are often 
 produced in such minds with so little effort, as to arise by a sort of 
 inspiration, or as in dreams ; but they differ still from the latter in 
 being entirely subservient to the designs of such creative power. It 
 is an interesting fact, that the highest feats of the intellect, or, in other 
 words, the most excellent combinations of ideas, have been such as 
 have occurred without effort. The ingenious man, or the man of quick 
 fancy, may put thoughts and things together, so as to produce most 
 striking and agreeable effects ; but we see that they are put together 
 by a voluntary or even laborious effort, one the reverse of what ever 
 occurs in dreaming. But in the works of genius we perceive no such 
 marks of elaboration, unless in the finishing-off. There are no lines 
 of junction or dove-tailing. The paradise of Milton is not such as we 
 could conceive by assembling the different elements of all the fine 
 landscapes and gardens which we may have surveyed ; but it gives us 
 the idea of its having been seen at once by the poet's eye just as it is 
 described, or as our own nightly visions appear to us. The imagination
 
 182 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 of the genius, and that of the dreamer, are thus closely allied in so far 
 as they work by an " art unteachable, untaught ;" but they differ 
 widely in being attended and guided in the one case by the operations 
 of the judgment, and in the other as being independent of such sway 
 or assistance. 
 
 The remembrances which occur in dreams are often of a most 
 interesting character, and not such as might have been expected. 
 They bring back people of whom we have not thought for many years, 
 whom we have seen perhaps but once, and in the most incidental 
 manner ; and not only persons, but also places and things, and even 
 transient thoughts; and, what is still more curious, the subjects of 
 former dreams. I do not now dwell on these facts, because I shall 
 have to recur to them hereafter. I may only suggest, that it is a 
 fearful liability of our nature to have the past summoned before us, 
 when we may have fondly hoped that it was hid for ever in deepest 
 night, to anticipate what is to occur in another life : 
 
 " Each faintest trace that memory holds 
 
 So darkly of departed years, 
 In one broad glance the soul beholds, 
 And all that was at once appears." 
 
 This tendency is strongly manifested in dreams. Dreams which in the 
 morning we may fail with all our endeavours to recall, will recur many 
 days afterwards, when their proper associations have chanced to arise ; 
 and, on the other hand, events which we had entirely forgotten may be 
 re-enacted in sleep with all the semblance of novelty ; and their source 
 will not be recognised after awaking till other associations and remem- 
 brances have arisen. This fact will be important to remember when 
 we have to consider the apparent fulfilment of dreams. 
 
 Reasoning operations may be conducted in sleep. Mathematicians 
 have in their slumbers solved problems which posed them when awake. 
 The great metaphysician, Condillac, was sometimes enabled in his 
 sleep to bring to a satisfactory conclusion speculations which in the 
 day were incomplete. Cabanis tells that Franklin so often formed 
 correct and highly important conceptions of persons and political events 
 in his sleep, that he was inclined to view his dreams with superstitious 
 reverence ; while the real fact was, says Cabanis, that the philosopher's 
 acute and sagacious intellect was operating even in his sleep. 
 
 Thus far, then, we see that the phenomena of dreams are regulated 
 by the same laws of association or succession as those of waking
 
 DISTORTION OF EXPERIENCE IN DREAMS. 183 
 
 thought ; and the more closely we investigate the difference between 
 these two classes of phenomena, the more clearly we shall perceive 
 that many of the distinguishing characters are rather apparent than 
 real. 
 
 Before, however, proceeding to point out in what respects the ope- 
 rations of the mind in sleep appear to differ from those in our waking 
 hours, I shall adduce an example of a very interesting analysis, showing 
 how the materials of the most heterogeneous and incongruous dreams 
 may be traced to former and even recent experiences. 
 
 " I dreamed once," said Professor Maass, of Halle,* " that the Pope 
 visited me. He commanded me to open my desk, and he carefully 
 examined all the papers it contained. While he was thus employed, a 
 very sparkling diamond fell out of his triple crown into my desk, of 
 which, however, neither of us took any notice. As soon as the Pope 
 had withdrawn, I retired to bed, but was soon obliged to rise on account 
 of a thick smoke, the cause of which I had yet to learn. Upon 
 examination, I discovered that the diamond had set fire to the papers 
 in my desk and burnt them to ashes." 
 
 " On the preceding evening," continues Professor Maass, " I was 
 visited by a friend, with whom I had a lively conversation upon Joseph 
 the 2nd's suppression of monasteries and convents. With this idea, 
 though I did not become conscious of it in my dream, was associated 
 the visit which the Pope publicly paid the Emperor Joseph at Vienna, 
 in consequence of the measures taken against the clergy. And with 
 this again was combined, however faintly, the representation of the 
 visit which had been paid me by my friend. These two events were, 
 by the subreasoning faculty, compounded into one, according to the 
 established rule ; that things which agree in their parts, also correspond 
 as to the whole. Hence, the Pope's visit to the Emperor was changed 
 into a visit which was paid to me. The subreasoning faculty then, in 
 order to account for this extraordinary visit, fixed upon that which was 
 the most important object in my room, viz., the desk, or, rather, the 
 papers it contained. That a diamond fell out of the triple crown was 
 a collateral association, which was owing merely to the representation 
 of the desk. Some days before, when opening the desk, I had broken 
 the glass of my watch which I held in my hand, and the fragments 
 fell among the papers; hence no further attention was paid to the 
 diamond, as it was a representation of a collateral series of things. 
 
 * Quoted in Mr. Dendy's Philosophy of Mystery.
 
 184 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 But afterwards, the representation of the sparkling stone was again 
 excited, and became the prevailing idea ; hence it determined the 
 succeeding associations. On account of its similarity, it excited the 
 representation of fire, with which it was confounded ; hence arose fire 
 and smoke. But in the event the writings only were burnt, not the 
 desk itself ; to which, being of comparatively less value, the attention 
 was not at all directed." 
 
 The most obvious difference between the sleeping and waking state 
 has reference to the comparative vividness of present and past sensa- 
 tions ; for while in the latter state ideas of sensational impressions are 
 so faint as to be readily distinguished from things actually present 
 (except in certain morbid conditions), in the former the reverse of this 
 happens ; perceptions fade away and former sensations are revived with 
 an intensity that gives them the character of reality. That the intensity 
 or vividness is not altogether dependent on the want of contrast with 
 perceptions, I consider inferrible from the fact that actual outward 
 sensations are often mingled with those which are revived. Slight 
 sounds, feelings of heat and cold, frequently enter into the composition 
 of our dreams, and by the laws of association suggest new scenes and 
 characters in those nightly dramas. Expostire of the skin to the cold 
 may suggest all the scenery of Greenland, or the adventures of a Polar 
 expedition. The faint light which penetrates the closed eyelid may 
 give the idea of a conflagration, and so on. From this difference of 
 degree, whether absolute or relative, in the vividness of ideas, it 
 happens that the remembrances which occur in dreams are not felt to 
 be remembrances. Whatever is then presented to the mind is not 
 subjective but objective. Let it be a scene or transaction, it does not 
 appear to us as a vision, but we take a part in it, and are involved 
 mysteriously in its interests. Hence often the strangeness and inco- 
 herence of dreams. Our personal identity remains, and yet we are 
 engaged in transactions that happened centuries ago. On this subject 
 I may quote the experience of the English Opium Eater, related in his 
 own peculiarly eloquent language. " I had been, in youth, and even 
 since, for occasional amusement, a great reader of Livy, whom, I 
 confess, that I prefer, both for style and matter, to any other of the 
 Koman Historians ; and I had often felt, as most solemn and appalling 
 sounds, and most emphatically representative of the Eoman people, 
 the two words so often recurring in Livy, ' Consul Romanus? especially 
 when the Consul is introduced in his military character. I mean to
 
 DE QUINCEY'S DREAMS. 185 
 
 say that the words king, sultan, or regent, or any other titles of those 
 who embody in their own persons the collective majesty of a great 
 people, had less power over my reverential feelings. I had, also, 
 though no great reader of history, made myself minutely and critically 
 familiar with one period of English History, viz., the period of the 
 Parliamentary War, having been attracted by the moral grandeur of 
 some who figured in that day, and by the many interesting memoirs 
 which survived those unquiet times. Both these parts of my lighter 
 reading having furnished me with matter of reflection, now furnished 
 me with matter for my dreams. Often I used to see, after painting 
 upon the blank darkness a sort of rehearsal whilst waking, a crowd of 
 ladies, and perhaps a festival, and dances. And I heard it said, or I 
 said to myself, ' These are English ladies from the unhappy times of 
 Charles I. These are the wives and the daughters of those who met 
 in peace, and sat at the same tables, and were allied by marriage or 
 blood ; and yet, after a certain day in August, 1 642, never smiled upon 
 each other again, nor met, but in the field of battle, and at Marston 
 Moor, at Newbury, or at Naseby, cut asunder all ties of love by the 
 cruel sabre, and washed away in blood the memory of ancient friend- 
 ship.' The ladies danced, and looked as lovely as the court of George 
 IV. Yet I knew even in my dream that they had been in the grave 
 for nearly two centuries. This pageant would suddenly dissolve, and 
 at a clapping of hands would be heard the heart-quaking sound of 
 Consul Romanus ; and immediately came sweeping by, in gorgeous 
 paludaments, Paulus or Marius, girt round by a company of centurions, 
 with the crimson tunic hoisted on a spear, and followed by the alalag- 
 mos of the Roman legions." 
 
 Before leaving the consideration of revived sensations, I may 
 notice a peculiarity as to light and sound. "We seldom, at least in 
 healthy dreams, have visions of great brilliancy ; the light is not that 
 of the noon-day, but the sober hue of evening, or even the dim grey 
 shade of twilight. Hence, when we speak of shadowy, ill-defined 
 perceptions of our waking life, we are apt to call them dream-like. 
 The same obtains of sounds, which, unless produced by outward causes, 
 and blended with the dream, are usually of the kind described by 
 the poet, 
 
 "Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream." 
 
 The imperfection of the dreaming memory is remarkably illustrated 
 when we are revisited by the forms of those who have long departed
 
 186 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 this life ; for we believe them to be still living, simply because we 
 have forgotten that they are dead. Another very important fact as to 
 these revived impressions is, that we do not often subject them to the 
 dominion of the will. A great difference is very observable in those 
 processes of thought which belong to the imaginative faculty. The 
 combinations are not, as under the active imagination of our waking 
 hours, effected in order to fulfil some illustrative purpose, nor, as in 
 the passive imagination, are we conscious that the scenes, however 
 wild, and the persons, however monstrous, are mere creations of the 
 mind. The emotions they excite are often of the most overpowering 
 description. 
 
 " Dreams in their development have hreath, 
 
 And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy. 
 
 They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, 
 
 They take a weight from off our waking toils, 
 
 They do divide our heing. * * * 
 
 * * * * They have power, 
 
 The tyranny of pleasure and of pain.'' 
 
 But, on the other hand, it is a singular distinctive characteristic of 
 dreaming that the emotions which we might, a priori, have expected 
 to arise are not produced. Of these the emotion of surprize or wonder 
 is the most frequently wanting. The wildest incoherences, the con- 
 founding of personal identities, the mingling of material and mental 
 properties, the most miraculous violations of the best ascertained laws 
 of nature, excite no more amazement than the commonest events of 
 life. I have dreamed of standing at the foot of a vast cataract, pick- 
 ing up shells and sand, the fall of water being suspended, as it were, 
 in the air, while I was quietly employed at its base, and unconscious 
 that there was anything extraordinary in all this. Dr. Macnish says, 
 " on one occasion fancy so far travelled into the regions of absurdity, 
 that I conceived myself riding upon my own back ; one of the resem- 
 blances being mounted upon another, and both animated with the soul 
 appertaining to myself, in such a manner that I knew not whether I 
 was the carrier or the carried." 
 
 A gentleman to whom this Institution is largely indebted gave me 
 the following experience : " I have several times appeared to read a 
 portion of an imaginary work as regularly as if it had been real. I 
 have also dreamed that I was dead, and that I carried my own body in 
 a coach to bury it, and that when I reached the place of burial a 
 stranger said, ' I would not advise you, sir, to bury your body in this
 
 ABSENCE OF SURPRIZE IN DREAMS. 187 
 
 place, for they are about to build so near it, that I have no doubt the 
 body will be disturbed by the builders.' 'That,' I replied, 'is very 
 true ! I thank you for the information, and I will remove it to another 
 spot ;' upon which I awoke." 
 
 It is probable that the absence of surprize, on the occasions alluded 
 to, is due to the defective exercise of the comparing faculty. A want 
 of discernment of the true relations of things is one of the most 
 remarkable characteristics of dreaming, and consequently the newness 
 and strangeness of the connections of the things presented to our 
 observation do not strike us. Defective exercise of the comparing 
 faculty, however, is a roundabout phrase for expressing the fact, that 
 the associated ideas are fewer in number. Dryden says : 
 
 "Dreams are the interludes which fancy makes; 
 When monarch reason sleeps, this mimic wakes, 
 Compounds a medley of disjointed things, 
 A court of coolers, or a mob of kings." 
 
 Now, " a mob of kings " to a person awake would be odd and 
 surprizing enough, because with such a sight there would arise in his 
 mind all his former ideas of those august personages. But the dreamer 
 has the regal multitude before him, and no other idea arises in his 
 mind, by memory or association, to shew the absurdity of the impres- 
 sion. The blending of the past and present, the intermingling of the 
 events of the 17th and 19th centuries, the division of the indivisible 
 personal consciousness, from the want of due associations, are not 
 perceived to be incongruities, or impossibilities, and therefore we are 
 not surprised. It is in this respect that dreaming bears so close a 
 resemblance to insanity, so that it has been long ago remarked that 
 delirium is dreaming awake, as dreaming is the delirium of sleep. A 
 notable difference, however, consists in this, that the former is apt to 
 be acted upon, while the execution of the sleeper's vagrant fancies is 
 precluded by the thraldom in which his active powers are held ; except 
 in those morbid cases in which the nervo-muscular system does not 
 slumber with the rest of the body, and to which I alluded in my 
 former lecture. 
 
 Some metaphysicians of high reputation have held, that the want 
 of command over the order of our ideas is the great distinguishing 
 mark of dreaming, an opinion to which we cannot entirely subscribe. 
 The suspension of volition, though a frequent, and, perhaps, a general 
 accompaniment, is not by any means indispensable to dreaming ; for
 
 188 SLEEP AND DKEAMS. 
 
 we certainly do exercise it in the recollections, and in the -efforts at 
 action in our dreams. Nevertheless, as we have already observed, the 
 principal mental phenomena are of the passive character. It must be 
 borne in mind, however, that in sleep we do not often wish to command 
 our thoughts. When we are awake, our sensations are constantly 
 interfering with the order of ideas, and, therefore, we are obliged to 
 exert efforts of the will, as it is called, to keep such and such thoughts 
 before us. Ideas are more readily associated with ideas, when sensa- 
 tions are excluded. Hence many persons instinctively close their eyes 
 when engaged in deep thought. And the vagrant ideas of a person in 
 a reverie, or fit of abstraction, or in a brown-study, being little mingled 
 with perceptions, are very like those of a dreamer. 
 
 The partial character of the thinking and feeling processes in sleep, 
 is well illustrated by the defect of that form of judgment which con- 
 stitutes taste. The most miserable doggerel may then pass before the 
 mind as exquisite poetry. Orations may seem to be uttered worthy of 
 the lips of Demosthenes, and arguments may be maintained which, 
 seem as irrefragable as the demonstrations of Euclid ; and yet, were 
 these reasonings and declamations uttered by a waking person, they 
 would sound little better than the incoherent ravings of a maniac. 
 Yet even to this general rule there have been remarkable exceptions. 
 Oases are on record of judges who, in their sleep, have delivered 
 decisions of the weightiest kind ; and of poets who, in that state, have 
 composed verses of great power and beauty, though they were by no 
 means exempt from a certain degree of mystical indistinctness. The 
 most striking instance is Mr. Coleridge's poem, entitled " Kubla Khan," 
 which he himself characterised as a "psychological curiosity." 
 
 Another instance of the difference between dreaming and waking 
 thought is that curious suspension of the moral sense, which is some- 
 times experienced. To this slumber of the conscience the virtuous are 
 not less prone than the wicked. It is by no means true, as it has often 
 been asserted, that the natural character is necessarily repeated in the 
 state of dreaming. Frequently it is so ; the brave enact prodigies of 
 valour ; the cowards die many deaths in their sleep ; the compassionate 
 are dissolved in grief for the woes of imaginary sufferers, and so on. 
 But occasionally the reverse of this happens, just as in the analogous 
 state of insanity. The pacific become pugnacious ; the gentle and 
 open-hearted entertain strange suspicions and animosities ; and the 
 pure give utterance to sentiments which shock us like the snatches of
 
 TIME AND SPACE IN DREAMS. 189 
 
 old songs that fall from the innocent lips of Ophelia. So in sleep, 
 deeds from which we should shrink with horror when awake, are per- 
 formed not only without the least remorse, but even without any 
 question in our minds as to their propriety. 
 
 The seemingly extraordinary lapse of time has been often remarked 
 in sleep, and it is easily explained. We can think of the events which 
 compose the dream, in the same time as we dreamed them ; but in the 
 dream, these events, though only thought of, seem to be real, and 
 seeming real, they leave the same impression of time on the mind as 
 if they had actually happened. The feeling of time arises from the 
 number of perceptions. The greater their number, and the more 
 vivid and varied they are, the longer will seem to have been the time 
 they occupied. It is just the reverse with thoughts. The more intense 
 the latter, the less is the feeling of time. But in dreaming, what are 
 really thoughts impress us with the belief that they are outward per- 
 ceptions, and, as such, they excite a corresponding idea of time ; 
 
 so that 
 
 "a thought, 
 
 A slumbering thought is capable of years, 
 And curdles a long life into one hour." 
 
 The sense of space is sometimes wonderfully affected. Mr. De 
 Quincy says, " buildings and landscapes were exhibited in proportions 
 so vast, as the bodily eye is not fitted to receive. Space swelled and 
 was amplified to an extent of unutterable infinity. This, however, 
 did not disturb me so much as the vast expanse of time. I sometimes 
 seemed to have lived 70 or 100 years in one night, nay, sometimes 
 had feelings representative of a millenium passed in that time, or a 
 duration far beyond the limits of human experience." 
 
 On reviewing then the state of the mind in the sleeping man as 
 compared with its condition in one awake, it does not appear that there 
 is any one of the faculties, as some would say, or any of the states of 
 consciousness, as others would express it, which may not be exercised 
 or exist in dreams. The sleeper may, though he does not ordinarily 
 do so, see, hear, smell, taste and touch ; he may, and commonly does, 
 remember and imagine ; he may reason, and reason rightly according 
 to his premises ; he may be agitated by the same passions, and be 
 subject to the same refined sentiments of the moral, the sublime, and 
 the beautiful, as when he is awake. Wherein, then, consists the 
 difference ? Mainly in this, that the mental processes are far less
 
 190 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 complete. Though specimens of any one of the classes of thoughts 
 and feelings may be presented, the number and variety are very 
 inferior to those of the waking state. Sensations occur so seldom as to 
 be exceptional. The mind does not pass, so to speak, from percep- 
 tions to remembrances, and then back again to perceptions ; and the 
 associated ideas are so sparing as to produce those defects of judg- 
 ment which we have just noticed. The stores given up by memory, 
 though often surprising in their variety and far-fetched character, are 
 still very scanty, as, for instance, when we remember and seem to 
 behold the friend who died in our childhood, and yet forget that he is 
 no more ; and the products of our imagination are not corrected by 
 the judgment, because only a few associations arise in our minds. 
 Though the moral sense is alert and even morbidly so at one time, at 
 another it is quite paralysed. In short, I need not repeat, what I hope 
 has been already sufficiently illustrated, that the great distinction 
 between the two conditions is one of degree rather than of kind. There 
 is, however, one difference apparently of kind, namely, that which I 
 have noticed as the actual or seeming intensity of revived sensations, 
 and which, when occurring in our waking hours, produces the pheno- 
 mena of spectral illusions. But even this difference is resolvable into 
 one of degree. To sum up then: the materials of dreams are the 
 same as those which belong to our waking life, though they are fewer 
 in number, and occur in different degrees of intensity ; and the laws 
 which regulate their order and composition are the same as those 
 which operate in the other great division of our existence. 
 
 Having thus endeavoured to point out the leading features in which 
 the phenomena of dreams resemble or differ from those of our waking 
 thoughts and feelings, I proceed to inquire which of our past sensations 
 are more likely to be renewed in the mental processes of sleep. And 
 I may state in the onset, that much will depend in this respect on the 
 character of sleep, as to its being healthy or unhealthy. In the former 
 condition, I believe it will be found consistent with general observation, 
 to say that the ideas (using this term as before to express the images 
 of former perceptions) most apt to arise are those which have been 
 prompted by the events and the thoughts of the previous or recent 
 days. I say prompted by the latter, for I do not consider it a character 
 of healthy sleep to have the occurrences of the day renewed in it. The 
 more strictly we analyse our dreams, the more perhaps we shall be 
 -struck by their connections with recent experience ; and yet the entirely
 
 HEALTHY DREAMS DO NOT REPEAT THE DAY. 191 
 
 different and remote matter which constitutes the body of the dream is 
 not less remarkable. By the operation of the laws of association, per- 
 sons and things long by-gone and forgotten are recalled in such vivid 
 colours, and they occupy so prominent a place in the vision, that the 
 circumstances which suggested their recurrence are apt to be totally 
 overlooked. This fact, though not much noticed by those who have 
 investigated our subject, seems to me particularly interesting, because 
 it affords a striking indication of the harmonious arrangement of the 
 human economy. The mind is refreshed and invigorated by the pre- 
 sentation of images which have not recently occupied its attention, 
 whether they occur in the form of simple revived perceptions, or are 
 wrought up by imagination into combinations that have all the effect 
 of novelty. And again, the faculties of passive memory and imagi- 
 nation which are thus employed, are precisely those which have been 
 least exercised in the waking hours of the busy -minded man ; while 
 those which he most employs in the occupations of the day, namely, 
 perception, active memory, and judgment, are enjoying complete 
 repose. Whether listless day-dreamers are refreshed in the night 
 season is a matter of little moment. I think it probable, that the 
 machinery by which this beneficent contrivance is executed, is of the 
 same nature as that which I endeavoured to point out on a former 
 occasion, when treating of the efficient or physical cause of sleep. It 
 is a general law, that the vital processes of nutrition and secretion arc 
 not equally active in all parts of the system at the same time, and that 
 activity in one part is compensated by an opposite state in another 
 part. When those portions of the brain which belong to the faculties 
 of active observation and reflection have ceased to act, those in which 
 memory and imagination reside, may be brought into play with but 
 little demand on the strength of the system. This latter view is, how- 
 ever, hypothetical, and whether true or not, does not interfere with the 
 importance or interesting nature of the fact which it seeks to explain. 
 Of the refreshment afforded by the arrangement which I have 
 hinted at, we obtain perhaps a most decisive converse evidence from 
 that kind of sleep which is not healthy ; and which, like all morbid 
 states, is a deviation from the natural condition. How little repose is 
 experienced on awaking from a sleep in which we have done little else 
 than go over afresh the cares, the wearisome duties, the perturbations 
 and struggles of the previous day; a kind of sleep which is well 
 known by those who go to bed over-tired, over-excited, too weary to
 
 192 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 sleep, or, when sleeping, dreaming of labour.* One form of this 
 over-fatigue is well known by literary men who retire to rest with 
 their minds surcharged with the subject of some particular com- 
 position. Our illustrious townsman, Southey, gave an excellent 
 admonition to a friend of mine who was writing a poem, " Be sure 
 when you dream of your subject, to lay your work aside for a few 
 days." This advice was founded on his own experience. When that 
 against which he warned my friend happened to himself, he made it a 
 rule to engage in some other research. The secret of this is, the 
 unnatural excitement of a part of the nervous system, so that its 
 action continues when it ought to subside. Everybody must have felt 
 the difficulty of getting rid of an impression on going to sleep, which, 
 either from the vividness of its first presentation, or from the anxious 
 emotions related with it, or simply from its long entertainment by the 
 mind, continues in spite of our will. Such impressions bear a close 
 analogy to those which are sometimes left on the mere organs of sense. 
 "When the eye has become fixed on a luminous object, the image 
 remains for a time on the retina, even after the eyelids are closed. 
 Loud and long continued sounds continue to echo in the ear, such as 
 the roll of a carriage, &c. Analogous to these also is that feeling of 
 oscillatory movement which is left in the body after tossing on the sea. 
 Continuance then of the day's impressions and thoughts may be 
 considered as one of the forms of unhealthy dreaming. Another kind 
 is that which derives its materials from bodily disturbances. These 
 usually suggest emotions of gloom, fear, vexation, as well as scenes 
 associated with such feelings, and derived from memory and imagi- 
 nation. Pressure upon some of the nerves of the skin in an uneasy 
 posture, exposure of a part of the surface to cold, and indigestion, 
 with its myriad morbid impressions, will give rise to the most frightful 
 fancies. One hand cold and benumbed applied to the other, has 
 suggested the idea of a visitant from the grave laying its deathy grasp 
 on the sleeper in token of the truth of a communication which was the 
 product of his own brain. As to the impressions derived from disorder 
 
 *"Atque in qua ratione fuit contents magis mens 
 In somnis eadem plerum<|iie videmur obire : 
 Cansidici causas agere, et componere leges; 
 Induperatores puguare, ac prselia obire; 
 Nautre contractum cum ventis cernere bellum; 
 Nos agere hoc autem, et naturani qucerere rerum 
 Semper, et inventum patriis exponere chartis." 
 
 Lucret. Lib. IV.
 
 EFFECT OF NARCOTICS ON DREAMING. 193 
 
 of the internal organs, it must not be supposed that the painful and 
 disagreeable dreams have not had such an origin, merely because the 
 individual is unconscious of any such derangement ; for, as we have 
 already remarked, the sympathetic sensation often supersedes the 
 primary impression. In the waking state, our minds may in like 
 manner be oppressed by gloom and despondency, or filled with appre- 
 hensions of coming calamities, and the whole world " sicklied o'er " 
 with the cast of dismal thought, though nothing has occurred at all 
 warranting such feelings, and we ourselves are unconscious of any- 
 thing wrong in the bodily organs. Yet, that these were in fault is 
 proved by the dissipation of the unhealthy fears and anxieties under 
 the influence of measures which correct the corporeal functions. 
 
 Sometimes by the pressure of direct sensations from without, 
 provided they are not too strong to arouse the sleeper, his dreams 
 assume a happy character. Such may be the effect of faint and distant 
 music, recalling delightful hours from the past, or suggesting imagery 
 and actors from the world of poetry and romance. 
 
 It is a curious fact, that sometimes external impressions which have 
 only been made during sleep, have also been revived in that state 
 exclusively.* On the other hand, what has been heard in a half- 
 dreaming state, may recur in a dream, and be afterwards remembered 
 without the original source having been recognised. This may afford 
 a clue to some mysterious verifications of dreams. 
 
 Of the material causes of dreams, none are more remarkable than 
 the substances called narcotics, especially opium and belladonna. 
 These drugs, while they annul the susceptibility of the sensory ganglia 
 to outward impressions, have often a singularly exciting and perturb- 
 ing influence on those portions of the brain which, at our last meeting, 
 we pointed out as belonging to intellectual processes, and to the higher 
 sentiments. 
 
 Nowhere are the effects of opium described with more power and 
 eloquence than in the " Confessions of an English Opium Eater;" 
 and I therefore shall not apologize for reading you more than one 
 extract from that singularly interesting work. 
 
 " Oh! just, subtle, and mighty opium! that to the hearts of poor 
 and rich alike, for the wounds that never heal, and for the 'pangs 
 that tempt the spirit to rebel,' bringest an assuaging balm ; eloquent 
 
 * An interesting case of this kind is related by Dr. Abercronabie iu his work 
 on the Intellectual Powers. 
 
 O
 
 194 SLEEP AND DEKAMS. 
 
 opium ! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest away the purposes of 
 wrath ; and to the guilty man, for one night, givest back the hopes of 
 his youth, and hands washed pure from blood ; and to the proud man 
 a brief oblivion for ' wrongs unredressed, and insults unrevenged ; ' 
 that summonest to the chancery of dreams, for the triumph of suffer- 
 ing innocence, false witnesses, and confoundest perjury, and dost 
 reverse the sentences of unrighteous judges ; thou buildest upon the 
 bosom of darkness, out of the fantastic imagery of the brain, cities 
 and temples beyond the art of Phidias or Praxiteles, beyond the 
 splendour of Babylon and Hecatompylos ; and ' from the anarchy of 
 dreaming sleep ' callest into sunny light the faces of long buried 
 beauties, and the blessed household countenances, cleansed from the 
 * dishonour of the grave.' Thou only givest these gifts to man ; and 
 thou hast the keys of paradise, Oh ! just, subtle, and mighty opium !" 
 The following extract illustrates the more distressing dreams pro- 
 duced by opium. 
 
 " The waters now changed their character ; from translucent lakes, 
 shining like mirrors, they now became seas and oceans. And now came 
 a tremendous change, which unfolding itself slowly, like a scroll, for 
 many months, promised an abiding torment, and, in fact, it never left 
 me until the winding up of my case. Hitherto the human face had 
 mixed often in my dreams, but not despotically, nor with any special 
 power of tormenting. But now that which I have called the tyranny 
 of the human face began to appear ; the sea appeared paved with 
 innumerable faces, upturned to the heavens ; faces imploring, wrath- 
 ful, despairing, surged upwards by thousands, by myriads, by 
 generations, by centuries ; my agitation was infinite, my mind tossed 
 and surged with the ocean." 
 
 I cannot resist the temptation of offering one more quotation, 
 wonderfully interesting in what it describes, and still more so in the 
 eloquence of the description. 
 
 " The dream commenced with a music, which now I often hear in 
 dreams, a music of preparatipn, and of awakening suspense, a 
 music like the opening of the coronation anthem, and which, like that, 
 gave the feeling of a vast march, of infinite cavalcades filing off, and 
 the tread of innumerable armies. The morning was come of a mighty 
 day, a day of crisis and of final hope for human nature, then suffer- 
 ing some mysterious eclipse, and labouring in some dread extremity. 
 Somewhere, I knew not where, somehow, I knew not how, by some
 
 PKOPHETIC DREAMS. 195 
 
 beings, I knew not whom, a battle, a strife, an agony was conducting, 
 was evolving, like a great drama or piece of music, with which my 
 sympathy was the more insupportable, from my confusion as to its 
 place, its cause, its nature, and its possible issue. I, as is usual iu 
 dreams (where of necessity we make ourselves central to every move- 
 ment), had the power, and yet had not the power to decide it. I had 
 the power, if I could raise myself to will it, and yet, again, had not 
 the power ; for the weight of twenty Atlantics was upon me, or the 
 oppression of inexpiable guilt. ' Deeper than ever plummet sounded ' 
 I .lay inactive. Then, like a chorus, the passion deepened. Some 
 greater interest was at stake, some mightier cause than ever yet the 
 sword had pleaded, or trumpet had proclaimed. Then came sudden 
 alarms, hurrying to and fro, trepidations of innumerable fugitives, I 
 knew not whether from the good cause, or the bad, darkness and 
 lights, tempests and human faces, and, at the last, with the sense that 
 all was lost, female forms, and the features that were worth all the 
 world to me, and but a moment allowed ; and clasped hands, and 
 heart-breaking partings, and then everlasting farewells ! And with a 
 sigh such as the caves of hell sighed when the incestuous mother 
 uttered the abhorred name of death, the sound was reverberated, 
 everlasting farewells ! and again, and yet again reverberated, ever- 
 lasting farewells ! I awoke in struggles, and cried aloud, ' I will 
 sleep no more.' ' ; 
 
 I must now devote some remarks to the question of the prophetic 
 character of dreams. And first we must endeavour to state the ques- 
 tion clearly. It is not whether dreams are ever fulfilled, whether the 
 subsequent facts correspond to those prefigured in the dream, but 
 whether the correspondence is such that we are obliged to infer that 
 the future was revealed to the dreamer by the interposition of super- 
 human power ? 
 
 Before receiving evidence as to events that do not lie within the 
 limits of ordinary experience, we naturally and instinctively consider 
 their antecedent probability. It may be that, however extraordinary 
 the occurrence, still it has no improbability. The mind may have been 
 prepared for it, as in the case of the magnetic spark ; wonderful as 
 was the discovery, it harmonized with previous knowledge upon the 
 subject. On the other hand it may not only be extraordinary, but it 
 may be also opposed to all a priori views. In the former case a much 
 smaller amount of evidence will be sufficient for inducing us to admit
 
 196 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 the fact. In the latter we require the most rigid proof that testimony 
 is capable of affording. 
 
 As to the present question, it might appear to some that improba- 
 bility cannot be predicated of such events, seeing that so many instances 
 are vouched for in Holy "Writ, and that if it has already pleased God 
 to make communications to his creatures through dreams and visions, 
 it is presumptuous to deny the probability of His doing so again. But 
 upon a further consideration, we must, I think, perceive that these 
 very cases do really render more improbable the repetition of such 
 interferences in ordinary life, inasmuch as they belong to a dispensation 
 altogether miraculous and supernatural. 
 
 Now, the very nature of dreaming, according to what has been 
 already advanced this evening, and, indeed, according to every one's 
 nightly experience, is such as to negative the probability of dreams- 
 being made the medium of such communications as are assumed. We 
 have seen that they are full of the most glaring incongruities, and that 
 there is the closest resemblance between the mental condition of the 
 dreamer and that of the lunatic ; and unless, as in uncivilized com- 
 munities, we are disposed to invest the latter with a sacred character, 
 we can hardly be willing to look upon the former as a gifted personage, 
 because he is a dreamer. If we are not justified in looking, in our 
 waking hours, for communications that may supersede the results of 
 those faculties which the Creator has given us for our guidance, a 
 fortiori, we cannot expect them, when, from the imperfect state of the 
 mind, we should be unable to distinguish the suggestions of our errant 
 unbridled fancy from divine inspirations.* 
 
 It is a favourite and good argument much in use with Englishmen, 
 that whatever leads to bad practical results must be unsound in theory. 
 Now, it would be easy to shew that very evil consequences would 
 result and have resulted from faith in dreams. The lives of some may 
 be wasted in vague expectations of happiness, foretold in dreams, while 
 visionary clouds and darkness may perpetually overshadow the days of 
 others, who else might have gone on their way rejoicing. 
 
 But these objections to the prophetic nature of dreams are only of 
 an a priori formation. It may yet be a matter of fact that dreamers 
 have been the subjects of supernatural illumination. But to admit the 
 fact, as I have said, we require the strongest evidence. 
 
 * A line of argument somewhat similar to this may be found in Cicero's treatise 
 " De Divinatione."
 
 TESTS OF PROPHECY IN DREAMS. 197 
 
 Istly. We must remember that the testimony is single, and, so far, 
 less to be trusted than were it confirmed by the experience of others. 
 A dream, in its nature, is cognizable only by one mind. We depend, 
 then, on the veracity of a single informant, except in those cases in 
 which the dream has been related before the event which fulfilled its 
 augury. 
 
 2ndly. If the dream comes to us second-hand, we must remember 
 that the love of the marvellous, so inherent in man, renders the hearer 
 as prone to believe, as the narrator to dress up a wonderful story. 
 The relaters of the most real events are but too prone to modify and 
 add to their stories, or to suppress circumstances, in order to make 
 them fit some particular view. The account of a civil commotion 
 witnessed by two persons of different political sentiments, will differ 
 most remarkably. Each unconsciously moulds the facts so as to adapt 
 them to some pre-existent view. This is signally the case with the 
 relaters of dreams, whom it is impossible to gainsay, however much 
 we may disbelieve them. 
 
 3rdly. We must reject all cases in which the verification of the 
 dream may be explained on other principles than that of a real pro- 
 phetic power. Of these principles, the first that occurs to our notice is 
 casual or fortuitous fulfilment. The sense I here attach to fortuitous is 
 this. The event in the dream, and its subsequent corresponding event, 
 happen near together, but are dependent on different trains of causes. 
 To take a familiar instance of another kind. A person from Cumber- 
 land, and another from Cornwall, formerly fellow-students, having lost 
 sight of each other for many years, meet some fine May morning quite 
 unexpectedly in Pall Mall or Cheapside, and, on comparing notes, they 
 find that they had arrived in town on the same day, and had left home 
 on the same day. They part and never meet again ; and nothing 
 comes of the interview but a story to tell over and over again, as they 
 advance in life, of the singular coincidence that happened among other 
 wonderful occurrences in their visit to London. Now, if the interview 
 had produced any important influence on the life of either party, it 
 would have been difficult to resist the temptation of viewing it as an 
 event specially brought about by a higher power for the particular 
 result in question. And yet many other events just as important in 
 their results, though not occurring in the same unusual manner, have 
 as good a title to be viewed as instances of direct interposition. To
 
 198 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 the religious mind which believes that all things are of God, that "in 
 Him " we " constantly live and move, and have our being," that " not 
 a sparrow falls to the ground without his permission," every event 
 must be held as subject to his ordinance ; and it will not be hastily 
 presumed, that those are specially so which affect one person in par- 
 ticular. For who can affect to say what events are momentous or 
 otherwise ? That meeting of two friends in London, though it seemed 
 not " to point a moral," however much it might " adorn a tale," may 
 have been very important to others. The narrative reaching the ears 
 of a solitary recluse, whose heart had been long, long yearning for 
 the friend of his youth, may have prompted him to undertake a journey 
 to London in the hope of some similar happy coincidence ; and he may 
 have lost his life on his journey, or, having got safe to the end of it,, 
 may have failed in his hope, and yet been led to form an acquaintance, or 
 even tenderer connections, that altered the complexion of the remainder 
 of his existence, or even wonderfully affected remote posterity ; so 
 infinite, and infinitely connected, are the links in nature's chain of 
 existences. The principle of mere coincidence, then, will explain 
 many fulfilments of dreams as they are called ; and it must not be 
 presumed that it is not mere coincidence, because the dreams are of an 
 unusually interesting character. When one thinks of the vast number 
 of dreams which happen to every one in proportion to the number 
 that come true, I only wonder the fulfilments are so rare. I have 
 dreamed as much as most people in my time, but I never yet experi- 
 enced any of these remarkable verifications. J have conversed with 
 numbers of dreamers, and though they abounded in interesting recitals. 
 of what had happened to their friends in this way, I have seldom, 
 very seldom, found one who had been himself gifted with prophetic 
 visions ; just as for a thousand ghost- story- tellers, we meet with scarcely 
 one veritable ghost-seer ; and he turns out to be the subject of a peculiar 
 nervous disorder, that destroys the balance between the perceptive and 
 conceptive faculties. 
 
 As an instance of what strange things may happen in the way of 
 coincidence, I shall relate an anecdote of two persons who dreamed 
 the same dream. 
 
 " A young man, who was at an academy a hundred miles from 
 home, dreamt that he went to his father's house in the night, tried the 
 front door, but found it locked, got in by a back door, and, finding
 
 COINCIDENCES. 199 
 
 nobody out of bed, went directly to the bed-room of his parents. He 
 then said to his mother, whom he found awake, ' Mother, I am going 
 a long journey, and I am come to bid you good-bye ;' on this she 
 answered, under much agitation, ' Oh ! dear son, thou art dead.' He 
 instantly awoke and thought no more of his dream, until a few days 
 after he received a letter from his father, enquiring very anxiously 
 after his health, in consequence of a frightful dream his mother had 
 on the same night in which the dream now mentioned occurred to him. 
 She dreamt that she heard some one attempt to open the front door, 
 then go to the back door, and, at last, come into her bed-room. She 
 then saw it was her son, who came to the side of her bed, and said, 
 ' Mother, I am going a long journey, and am come to bid you good- 
 bye ;' on which she exclaimed, ' Oh ! dear son, thou art dead !' But 
 nothing unusual happened to any of the parties. This singular dream 
 must have originated in some strong mental impression which had been 
 made on both the individuals about the same time ; and to have traced 
 the source of it would have been a subject of great interest."* 
 
 In other dreams the communications made, though at first astound- 
 ing, and all but supernatural, are easily referable to a principle which 
 I noticed in the earlier part of this lecture, I mean the revival of 
 impressions which had remained dormant and unremembered for an 
 indefinite period, till some particular incident occurred capable of 
 giving the magic touch of re-vivification, like the marvellous words, 
 " Open, Sesame !" the only ones that would unlock the treasury of 
 past perceptions. If a person may grow up to adult age, and never 
 remember a scene which happened in earliest childhood, till the sug- 
 gestive association has been afforded by the smell of a certain flower 
 of rare occurrence, it is quite conceivable that in the mental processes 
 of sleep some phenomenon may occur that has this effect on what had 
 previously been forgotten, and which may seem to be a new repre- 
 sentation. One of the most striking instances of a person's remembering 
 in a dream what he had forgotten in his waking state, may be found 
 in the case of Mr. E., narrated by Sir Walter Scott, in his Notes to 
 " The Antiquary." 
 
 Some dreams work their own fulfilment. The mind vehemently 
 possessed by an idea thus received, almost instinctively acts up to it. 
 An unhappy person having dreamed that he should commit murder, 
 
 * Dr. Abercromble.
 
 200 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 was continually haunted by the impression, so that at last he fell upon 
 the crime as if devoted to it by an irresistible destiny. The influence 
 of an idea of the same kind, but obtained from another source, is but 
 too often exemplified. The details of atrocities in our public prints so 
 fasten on the minds of persons of a certain temperament, as to lead, on 
 the principle of passive imitation, to the perpetration of like horrible 
 deeds. Suicide has often been so induced. A belief in the premo- 
 nitions of dreams would greatly add to the effect. The subject of it 
 might fancy himself, Orestes-like, doomed to be, in the hands of Fate, 
 the instrument of punishment to the appointed victim, and yet be 
 himself the more pitiable of the two. But the dream may sometimes 
 act by supplying an additional motive to those already in operation, 
 strengthening the sense of duty, or some passionate enthusiasm. 
 Thought of at first as a bare possibility, amusing the mind that con- 
 templates it, it becomes familiar. Circumstances happen that bring it 
 nearer to a probability, and at last the dreamer's own will converts it 
 into a certainty. Oliver Cromwell is said to have had a remarkable 
 dream when a boy. " He had laid himself down one day," it is said, 
 " too fatigued with his youthful sports to hope for sleep, when suddenly 
 the curtains of the bed were slowly withdrawn by a gigantic figure, 
 which bore the aspect of a woman, and which, gazing at him silently 
 for awhile, told him that he should, before his death, be the greatest 
 man in England. He remembered, when he told the story, that the 
 figure had not made mention of the word King"* Forty years of the 
 life of this wonderful man passed without any occurrence that we can 
 imagine likely to have reminded him of this incident as anything but 
 a dream. By and by, in his fierce struggles with the regal power, the 
 phantom might have passed before his mind, and still, perhaps, only 
 raised a smile on the patriot's stern countenance. At Naseby the 
 phantom might have worn a solemn aspect, and at Worcester it 
 might have grown into a spirit, and the voice into an oracle. Perhaps, 
 on the floor of the House of Commons, when, by the breath of his 
 mouth, he drove the Long Parliament from, the very scene of his anti- 
 monarchial exertions, his soul at last became fully obedient to the 
 spell of the idea, which had now reached its full development. His 
 strong will, then become dominant over every other, may have become 
 the servant of his thought. He had realized his dream. Cromwell, 
 
 * Foster's Cromwell, in the Lives of British Statesmen.
 
 DKEAMS FULFILLED. 201 
 
 though not a king, had made himself, in very deed, the greatest man 
 in England. 
 
 In other cases the dream is fulfilled on a different principle. We 
 have seen that the operations of the mind may, in sleep, closely re- 
 semble those of our waking hours, especially when the sleeper retires 
 with his mind full of a particular subject. The thoughts of the day 
 are not only repeated in this morbid sleep, but even extended, so that 
 new and important results may be obtained. But the suggestions of 
 the mind so formed may, because they have occurred in a dream, be 
 erroneously taken for supernatural communications. The following 
 case, related by Dr. Abercrombie, well illustrates what I have said. 
 " A most respectable clergyman, in a country parish of Scotland, made 
 a collection at his church for an object of public benevolence, in which 
 he felt deeply interested. The amount of the collection, which was 
 received in ladles carried through the church, fell greatly short of his 
 expectation ; and during the evening of the day he frequently alluded 
 to this with expressions of much disappointment. In the following 
 night he dreamt that three one-pound notes had been left in one of the 
 ladles, having been so compressed by the money which had been 
 thrown in above them, that they had stuck in the corner when the 
 ladle was emptied. He was so impressed by the vision, that at an 
 early hour in the morning he went to the church, found the ladle which 
 he had seen in his dream, and drew from one of the corners of it 
 three one-pound notes." 
 
 But it is very needful to be cautious as to such presumptions from 
 apparent final causes. For proof of which we may turn to the auto- 
 biography of Capt. John Crichton, a gentleman who served in Scotland 
 during the unhappy reigns of Charles II. and James II. This worthy 
 relates how, on two separate occasions, his dreams indicated the clue 
 to the hiding-place of some of the unhappy Covenanters, who in those 
 days were undergoing a brutal persecution, days when the principles 
 of toleration and Christian charity were but little acted upon by either 
 of the conflicting parties in the ascendancy. By the information 
 received in his dreams, Capt. Crichton was enabled, on both occasions, 
 to pounce upon his victims. " Having drank hard one night," he 
 says, " I dreamed that I had found Capt. David Steele, a notorious 
 rebel, in one of the five farmers' houses, in the shire of Clydesdale, and 
 parish of Lismahego, within eight miles of Hamilton, a place that I
 
 202 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 was well acquainted with ;" and then he tells how by means of this 
 information he caused the man's death ! 
 
 In this and similar cases the mind of the dreamer is placed pas- 
 sively in the very situation which we endeavour, but often in vain, to 
 assume in our attempts at active recollection. All these associated 
 circumstances are called up which may escape our ordinary memory. 
 It is highly probable that the Captain's observant eye had transiently 
 noticed the spots alluded to as probable lurking-places of the fugitive 
 Covenanters. In the subsequent hurry of action they were forgotten, 
 but they were afterwards reproduced in his dream. 
 
 But my hearers may, perhaps, be weary of my attempt to dis- 
 enchant dreams of their mysterious interest. They may be inclined to 
 ask how I deal with those cases in which an event was vividly and 
 minutely pre-figured to a person hundreds of miles from the spot 
 where it was really occurring, or at a considerable period before it 
 came to pass ; such, for instance, as the following, narrated in an old 
 work, " The Itinerary of Mr. Fiennes Morrison." 
 
 " Whilst I lived at Prague, and one night had sat up very late 
 drinking at a feast, early in the morning, the sunbeams glancing on 
 my face as I lay in my bed, I dreamed that a shadow passing by told 
 me that my father was dead, at which, awaking all in a sweat, and 
 affected with this dream, I rose, and wrote the day and hour, and all 
 circumstances thereof, in a paper-book, which book, with many other 
 things, I put into a barrel, and sent it from Prague to Strode, thence 
 to be conveyed into England. And now being at Nuremberg, a mer- 
 chant of a noble family well acquainted with me and my friends 
 arrived there, who told me my father died some two months ago. I 
 list not to write any lies ; but that which I write is as true as strange. 
 When I returned into England some four months after, I would not 
 open the barrel I sent from Prague, nor look into the paper-book in 
 which I had written this dream, till I had called my sisters and some 
 friends to be witnesses, when myself and they were astonished to see 
 my written dream answer the very day of my father's death. 
 
 "I may lawfully swear that which my kinsman hath heard wit- 
 nessed by my brother Henry whilst he lived, that in my youth at 
 Cambridge I had the like dream of my mother's death, when, my 
 brother Henry living with me, early in the morning I dreamed that my 
 mother passed by with a sad countenance, and told me that she could
 
 SELF DECEPTION WITH REGARD TO DREAMS. 203 
 
 not come to my commencement, I being within five months to proceed 
 Master of Arts, and she having promised at that time to come to 
 Cambridge ; and when I related this dream to my brother, both of us 
 awaking together in a sweat, he protested to me that he had dreamed 
 the very same ; and when we had not the least knowledge of our 
 mother's sickness, neither, in our youthful affections, were any whit 
 affected with the strangeness of this dream; yet the next carrier 
 brought us word of our mother's death." 
 
 Supposing these narratives to be true, and regarding them for the 
 moment as instances of a kind of revelation, we look for a final cause, 
 but we discern none, unless it be the possibility of some influence on 
 the spiritual condition of the individuals. 
 
 A similar difficulty presents itself, when we read of the warnings 
 made through ghosts and dreams of the death of the celebrated or 
 notorious Duke of Buckingham. In fact, as Captain Grose says, " in 
 cases of murder, a ghost, instead of going to the next justice of the 
 peace and laying its information, or to the nearest relation of the 
 person murdered, appears to some poor labourer who knows none of 
 the parties, draws the curtain of some decrepit nurse or almswoman, 
 or hovers about the place where the body is deposited." 
 
 Before any such cases are received as true occurrences, it behoves 
 us to apply most rigorously all the tests of evidence ; and I hope I 
 shall not be deemed unduly suspicious, if I say that in very few 
 instances can we be satisfied that the relater of the dream, even when 
 wishing to be strictly accurate, has not been deceived by his own. 
 mind. When one striking object has been presented to the mind in 
 sleep, it is so easy to imagine others that might have harmonized with 
 it, that the latter may afterwards seem to be remembered as part 
 and parcel of the dream, and may enter into the narrative. Even the 
 subsequent event, the anti-type of the dream, may have attendant 
 circumstances which were not prefigured, but which are unconsciously 
 appropriated by the mind of the dreamer in accordance with that 
 singular propensity, now and then experienced, to imagine that what 
 has really happened to us for the first time, is only the repetition of 
 what has occurred at some previous period. Bertram says in Guy 
 Mannering, " How often do we find ourselves in society which we 
 have never before met, and yet feel impressed with a mysterious and 
 ill-defined consciousness, that neither the scene, the speakers, nor the 
 subject are entirely new, nay, feel as if we could anticipate that part
 
 204 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 of the conversation which has not yet taken place." You remember, 
 too, Coleridge's expression of the same idea in one of his sonnets : 
 " Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll, 
 Which makes the present, while the flash does last, 
 Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past, 
 Mixed with such feelings as perplex the soul 
 Self-questioned in her sleep ; and some have said 
 "We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore."* 
 
 I trust it will not be thought that I have depreciated dreams, by 
 endeavouring to divest them of some of the false interest which has 
 been attached to them. It is right that we should endeavour to view 
 all phenomena in their true aspects ; not through the tinted media of 
 human prejudices and misconceptions. We have warrant in Holy 
 Writ for extreme caution, to say the least, in lending a too ready ear 
 to the divinations of dreams ; and let us hear what has been said by 
 that orthodox divine, Jeremy Taylor, a name no less cherished by the 
 lovers of English literature than dear to the venerators of the English 
 Church. He is speaking of superstitious fear. " To this may be 
 reduced the observation of dreams, and fears commenced from the 
 fancies of the night ; for the superstitious man does not rest even when 
 he sleeps, neither is he safe because dreams usually are false, but he 
 is afflicted for fear they should tell true. Living and waking men have 
 one world in common ; they use the same air and fire, and discourse by 
 the same principles of logic and reason. But men that are asleep, 
 have every one a world to himself, and strange perceptions, and the 
 superstitious hath none at all. His reason sleeps, and his fears are 
 waking, and all his rest, and his very securities, to the fearful man 
 turn into affrights, and insecure expectation .of evils that never shall 
 happen. Dreams follow the temper of the body, and commonly 
 proceed from trouble or disease, business or care ; an active head and 
 a restless mind : from fear or hope, from wine or passion, from fulness 
 or emptiness, from fantastic remembrances, or from some demon, good 
 or bad ; they are without rule and without reason. They are as con- 
 tingent as if a man should study to make a prophecy ; and by saying 
 ten thousand things, may hit upon one true, which was therefore not 
 foreknown, although it was forespokea, and they have no certainty 
 because they have no natural causality, no proportion to those effects 
 which many times they are said to foresignify." f 
 
 * T Hv TTOV rjftwv r) fyvxri irpiv iv rufe TU dvOpwTTivw ticti yivkaQai. 
 
 Plat in Pluedon. 
 f Sermon ix.
 
 THE INTEKEST OF DKEAMS. 205 
 
 Apart from this view, there is nothing in dreams which needs to be 
 spoken of disparagingly ; on the contrary, they are a singularly inte- 
 resting class of mental phenomena, capable of affording materials for 
 study, at once profitable and engaging. Some of the questions they 
 suggest I have endeavoured to point out, though in a manner to my 
 own apprehension very imperfect and unsatisfactory. But I may have 
 said enough to shew, that while they have considerable light thrown 
 upon them by the true knowledge of the processes of waking thought, 
 they also in their turn may contribute not a little to the science of mind. 
 That accomplished metaphysician, Dugald Stewart, has recorded that 
 an essay which he wrote in his youth, upon dreams, led him to those 
 more extended researches which ended in the formation of a complete 
 system of mental philosophy. 
 
 They are not to be spoken of lightly, if we only consider how large 
 a component part they form of man's mental life. Think of all the 
 children of men, from the birth of the human race ; compute the 
 amount of existence spent in dreaming life ; allow only a fourth instead 
 of a third for sleep, and out of this give only half to conscious dream- 
 ing ; and even then how it dizzies the mind to comprise the largeness 
 of the fact ! Try to think only of the regions of the earth where life 
 has been most populous. To pass over the old lands of Greece and 
 the Roman Empire, and our modern Europe ; think of the clouds of 
 mummy dust mingled with the sands of Egypt ; and remember that it 
 belonged to beings who were dreamers, as well as builders and wor- 
 shippers. Think of the people of Hindostan, and Tartary, and the 
 Chinese Empire, and, whether you adopt their interminable chrono- 
 logies, or that which is current with ourselves, it is bewildering to 
 imagine all those generations which have sprung up like rank herbage, 
 and decayed as rapidly. But they had all of them working hands, and 
 busy brains, and yearning hearts, in their waking hours ; and, doubt- 
 less, they too renewed the day's labour in their sleep, or shaped a 
 fantastic visionary life.* The mere extent of the fact then alone 
 entitles it to consideration. But facts increase infinitely in interest (it 
 is almost a truism to remark it), according to their juxta-position. 
 And though ourselves set free from superstition, let us, when viewing 
 
 * " Rex, quse in vita usurpant homines, cogitant, curant, vident, 
 
 Qureque agunt vigilantes, agitantque, ea si cui in somno accidunt 
 Miuus mirum est." 
 
 Accii Sonmium, apuJ Cic. de Diviu.
 
 206 SLEEP AND DREAMS. 
 
 dreams in reference to the human species, consider how they have been 
 associated in men's minds with oracles, and revelations, and warnings ; 
 that they have seemed to bridge over the mysterious chasm which 
 divides us from the invisible world and its shadowy inhabitants. Let 
 us put aside, as too sacred for discussion here, those examples narrated 
 in the Sacred Scriptures, seeing that they belong altogether to a 
 miraculous dispensation which takes them out of the pale of common 
 historical phenomena ; and let us contemplate them in relation only to 
 what are commonly spoken of as the false religions of the world ; 
 those forms of faith into which men's minds have fallen by mere 
 natural tendency, especially when actuated by those outward influences 
 which belong to the solemn grove, the murmuring ocean, the vapour- 
 clad mountain, the silent night, the sun, and moon, and stars. With 
 the half-reasoning systems of prophet-sages, and the mythological 
 creations of poets, giving something of order and coherence, and an 
 abundance of beauty and interest, to those struggling, semi-organized 
 beliefs which had been generated of uninformed religious instincts, 
 or evoked by the whispers of primeval tradition, it is not wonderful 
 that the half-real, half-unearthly phenomena of dreams should seem 
 to accord wonderfully, and to tinge them with a colour of authenticity. 
 The awful forms that had been presented to the waking imagination in 
 fables, which in those simple times, and to those simple hearers had 
 nothing fabulous, could not but often recur in the visions of the night, 
 invested with attributes, and associated with circumstances, bearing 
 on the dreamer's personality, and infallibly deepening the superstition. 
 What, for instance, must have been the dreams of men who had 
 walked by moonlight, under the shadows of the tombs of departed 
 kings, for the remembrance of whose greatness no works could suffice, 
 but such as might last with the world itself; or paced the solemn 
 avenues filled with endless repetitions of that strange form, which, 
 perhaps, symbolized one of the great secrets of the universe ; or had 
 heard the Memnon hail the morning sun with miraculous melody ; 
 or on the plains of Thebes had looked up to those colossal Amunophs, 
 which sit even now as if they could never be moved, sedent ccternumque 
 sedebunt, or had worshipped and partaken of unutterable rites among 
 those pillars of Dendera, where 
 
 " marble demons watch 
 The Zodiac's brazen mystery, and dead men 
 Hang their mute thoughts on the dead walls around;"
 
 DREAMS ARE A KIND OF ART. 207 
 
 or had followed the loved and lost to the gloomy lake of the dead, and 
 had heard the earthly rehearsal of the future trial by the forty asses- 
 sors of human actions, which was to be actually undergone in other 
 worlds, in the dread presence of Osiris ! What the dreams of those 
 who had trembled in the caverns of Elephanta or Ellora, in sight of 
 those awful deities, into whose forms the rocks themselves seem to 
 have grown, rather than the forms to have been carved by human 
 hands, and there heard of Seeva the destroyer, and of the avenging 
 Avatar of Brama ! Less startling, and often lovely were the visions of 
 those who could dream in Arcadia of scenes 
 
 "where universal Pan 
 
 Knit with the Graces and the Hours, in dance 
 
 Led on the eternal spring ; " 
 or on the banks of Ilissus, or in the shadows of Pelion, could follow 
 
 the shapes of 
 
 " Sileni, and sylvans, and fauns, 
 
 And the nymphs of the woods and waves ;" 
 
 though sometimes there might be gloomier intimations of a retributive 
 Nemesis, and unconquerable Destiny, and even Pallas herself might 
 " frown severe."* 
 
 It would be wearisome to my hearers to carry a like train of 
 thought to the Scandinavian Pantheon, to the halls of Odin, the 
 regions of the Thunder-God, to the Gods and Heroes of our ances- 
 tors ; or across the Atlantic to those primeval cities and monuments, 
 overgrown by monstrous forest, in Yucatan. Yet wherever we trace 
 the footsteps of the religions of by-gone ages, we feel assured that the 
 same tracks were haunted by the dreams of the men of old. 
 
 But it is enough to bear in mind what we experience in our 
 own nightly visions. Dreams are much to be honoured and valued, 
 seeing that in the wonderful shapes of thought which they sometimes 
 present to us, we are gifted with conceptions of the ideal, divine 
 possibilities, a consummation of grandeur and beauty, beyond any- 
 thing which actual life can furnish ; glimpses of 
 
 " Worlds, whose course is equable and pure, 
 
 more pellucid streams, 
 
 An ampler ether, a diviner air, 
 
 And fields invested with purpureal gleams; 
 
 Climes which the sun, who sheds the brightest day 
 
 Earth knows, is all unworthy to survey.' 
 
 * " And Pallas frowned severe." Laudor's Hellenics. " Shades of Iphigenia 
 and Agamemnon."
 
 208 SLEEP AND DKEAMS. 
 
 And thus, like the revelations of philosophy, the embodiments of art, 
 and the inspirations of poetry, dreams, too, may tend to refine and 
 sublimate our thoughts, weaning us from low desires, and raising our 
 aspirations towards a state of existence, of which all that here is best, 
 and fairest, and greatest, is but a faint shadow, and may be remem- 
 bered in that purer world, like one of the most incomplete of our 
 earthly visions ; as a dream, in which whatever was beautiful was in 
 fragments, in which the mean and the sublime were incongruously 
 intermingled, and in which moral perfection was ever eluding the 
 grasp ; in which love was not free from some alloy of selfishness, nor 
 hope unmixed with fear.
 
 ON APPARITIONS. 
 
 HEBE* are, perhaps, not many persons of education at the 
 present period, who believe in the spiritual nature of appari- 
 tions, or who, at least, have the resolution to profess such a 
 "ty belief. The disposition to review them in a different light has 
 been the slow growth of years, in some measure proportionate to the 
 advancement of general information, and to the gradual decline of 
 superstition. Inclined as men are, by nature and circumstances, to 
 look upon apparitions as supernatural occurrences, the modes that have 
 been resorted to for the explanation of them on other principles have 
 perhaps been little calculated to satisfy the common mind. A certain 
 degree of learning was in former times necessary, and some sort of 
 knowledge more than usual among the lower classes, is even now 
 requisite for the comprehension of a proper theory of these pheno- 
 mena. But, independently of this want of knowledge, and without 
 alluding to the defects in the theories that were promulgated, there 
 has been so much discrepancy among learned men, that the less 
 enlightened have derived but little assistance from looking to their 
 superiors. Opinions have been for the most part divided between two 
 extremes absolute belief, or complete scepticism. On the one side it 
 was matter of pious faith, that sensible manifestations of departed 
 spirits had frequently occurred, and were liable to be presented to any 
 individual at any moment of time ; while, on the other, every narrative 
 of a supernatural appearance was treated either as a wilful imposture, 
 
 * This paper is reprinted from " The Bath and Bristol Magazine," where it ap- 
 peared in 1832. Ed.
 
 210 APPAEITIONS. 
 
 or as a mere chimsera, generated of fantasy and nurtured by super- 
 stition. When, therefore, the sentiments of the learned were so 
 widely different, it is not wonderful that the world in general should 
 have been inclined to that side to which they were directed by 
 the natural constitution of their minds, and the bias of their acquired 
 prejudices. Independently of these tendencies, had their minds been 
 free and open to the conclusions of reason, it should not excite surprise 
 that, when philosophy affected to consider as false stories what they 
 knew (as far as any thing can be known by unimpeachable testimony) 
 to be authentic statements ; when that was indefinitely explained as 
 the work of imagination which they had every ground for believing to 
 have been the subject of actual sensation ; when they were directed to 
 assign to the distemperament of feverish delirium what they knew 
 to have been presented to an individual whose pulse was calm and 
 brain unheated, or to find in the state of dreaming a solution of that 
 phenomenon, respecting which they had sufficient evidence, that it had 
 often been matter of experience when the senses were busy, the 
 muscles in action, and the mind fully alive to the presence and sub- 
 stantiality of an external world ; and, above all, when an assertion of 
 the physical impossibility of apparitions would have been deemed an 
 impious circumscription of the power of the Almighty : it should not 
 excite surprise, if the sentiments of the majority remained on the side 
 of instinct, superstition, and belief in testimony ; that the vulgar were 
 unmoved in their prejudices ; that unbiassed inquirers continued un- 
 satisfied ; that the most cautious considered belief to be the safer 
 alternative ; in short, that when the evidence of the senses was so 
 imperfectly contested by the suggestions of reason, the former should 
 receive more confidence than the latter. 
 
 In need scarcely be observed, that, in the present day, opinions 
 are more nicely balanced : that a reconciliation has been effected 
 between reason and the senses ; that credulity and incredulity have 
 mutually given way ; that the ghost-seer is no longer, on the one 
 side, branded as a liar, or ridiculed as a visionary ; or, on the other, 
 regarded as a mysterious being, who has been permitted to hold 
 communion with the invisible world ; that, in fact, the very individual 
 may now be brought to consider his perceptions in their due relation 
 to himself and to the nature of things. A few centuries ago, had a 
 man been told that the sun did not travel across the sky, it would have 
 been vain to have attempted to convince him by assuring him that he
 
 BELIEF IN SPIRITS. 211 
 
 was shackled by prejudice, or deluded by his imagination; such 
 general and indefinite arguments (if such they could be called) would 
 have left both the ignorant and enlightened as firm believers as ever 
 in the actual rising and going-down of that luminary ; it was necessary 
 that certain natural laws should be developed ; that the impression on 
 the senses should be accounted for, at the same time, that the pheno- 
 menon itself was proved to be so different in its nature from what it 
 was originally supposed to be. A similar kind of reason has latterly 
 been applied to the subject of Apparitions ; and has, accordingly, met 
 with more success. 
 
 Before entering upon the. immediate subject of this paper, it may 
 be worth while to enumerate some of the circumstances already alluded 
 to, as tending to determine the general belief of mankind in the 
 reality of apparitions. And, first, may be noticed, that all but in- 
 stinctive belief which men entertain of the separate existence of spirits. 
 It is pretty generally acknowledged, that scarcely any nation, however 
 barbarous, has yet been discovered altogether devoid of the notions of 
 a Deity, and of a future and separate state of being. The transition 
 from this to a belief in the possibility of the re-appearance of a 
 departed spirit is easy and natural. Probability would alone lead the 
 mind to it, at all events so far as to make it ready for the reception of 
 any story that asserted the fact. Whether this belief is really instinc- 
 tive, or only seemingly so, from its very early communication, it is not 
 necessary to inquire here ; but we might hazard the conjecture, that 
 the illusions of dreams and apparitions have themselves in some 
 instances given rise to the idea of a world of spirits, since the image 
 of a departed friend or relation must convey to the mind of the 
 individual who sees it the notion that the deceased is still existing 
 somewhere, though no longer in the same state of being as formerly. 
 
 Secondly. The next circumstance to be noticed is, the frequency 
 and authenticity of the testimonies in favour of apparitions. In every 
 country there have been narrations of the kind, and they have met 
 with as much credence as any other communications, and simply 
 because the narrators were men who had been believed on other 
 subjects, their powers of observation having been considered suffi- 
 ciently acute, and their honesty unimpeachable. When a man of this 
 description comes forward, in the full possession of his senses, and 
 declares that certain things have been perceived by those senses, his 
 hearers are compelled, on the same grounds upon which human testi-
 
 212 APPAEITIONS. 
 
 mony is generally received, to believe "what they are told. To this, 
 in the majority of instances, they are the more inclined, by having 
 themselves experienced similar visions, and by other circumstances to 
 be mentioned presently. "We ourselves, who have no faith in the 
 reality of apparitions, do not attempt to question a great number of 
 stories related : we believe that certain things were seen and heard > 
 but attempt a different explanation of the causes of the sensations ; 
 we assign to internal agency what was thought to be as much the 
 result of external impressions as any other of the sensations. 
 
 Thirdly. The circumstances attendant upon most of these appear- 
 ances have been such as to render the mind less capable of distinguish- 
 ing deceptions of the imagination, hallucinations, optical illusions, and 
 the like, from real perceptions. Thus, in darkness the mind is apt to 
 be perturbed by an indefinite apprehension of unknown dangers, and 
 therefore less likely to form a clear observation of any occurrence ; 
 then, also, from the remembrance of ghosts having generally chosen 
 that time for their appearance, a sort of preparation for a similar 
 manifestation is the consequence. The place, such as the lonely scene 
 of some atrocious deed, may excite a feeling of terror, that will alone 
 be sufficient to prevent the judging faculty from properly exercising its 
 office. A guilty conscience will of course have a yet stronger effect. 
 The excitement of any passion, or of a particular enthusiasm, will act 
 in the same manner, rendering the mind more apt to receive any 
 impression that harmonizes with the existing state of feeling. I beg to 
 mention that, in this place, I refer only to the predisposing influence of 
 the passions ; it will be seen in another place that they have a direct 
 power of producing spectral illusions. 
 
 Fourthly. The phenomena in question have frequently seemed to 
 fulfil some important purpose. If a warning of danger or death given 
 by a phantom has been apparently verified ; if statements have in that 
 manner been communicated, which posterior discoveries have confirmed ; 
 the belief in the reality of the spectre would at first sight appear all 
 but inevitable. I shall hereafter have occasion to return to this 
 circumstance. 
 
 Fifthly. Must be enumerated that love of the marvellous, so deeply 
 implanted in our nature. It is very well known to what lengths this 
 passion will carry the mind ; how the latter becomes willing to endure 
 positive suffering for the sake of surprise ; how children and the vulgar 
 will listen eagerly, though shuddering, to stories that call up to them
 
 THE LOVE OF THE MARVELLOUS. 213 
 
 the most appalling images ; how the greatest risks to life, to fortune, 
 to fame, and happiness, will be incurred for the gratification of the 
 feeling ; how the safety of the soul itself has been, or thought to have 
 been, hazarded in the pursuit of the wild and supernatural. It is not 
 wonderful, then, that the desire of excitement of this kind should 
 strongly incline the mind to the belief in question ; that it should dis- 
 like to be cheated out of this source of pleasure ; in short, that on 
 this, as on other occasions, belief should be determined by wishes. 
 Many have voluntarily surrendered their reason to credulity, when 
 visiting the scenes of fabulous exploits ; or felt disappointed that under 
 the insensibility of increasing years, and the damping influence of 
 experience, the mind can no more resign itself, as in earlier and happier 
 periods, an easy captive to visionary wonders. To the timid and guilty, 
 the dispossession of the belief in question is no slight comfort ; but 
 individuals in whose moral texture is a union of sensibility with 
 firmness, or still more in whom pensiveness is blended with enthusiasm, 
 experience (especially on particular occasions) a strong reluctance to 
 part with a fiction of such a melancholy interest. 
 
 Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, 
 
 And the apparel of the grave. 
 
 How often has the churchyard been visited at solemn midnight by the 
 heartbroken mourner, who fosters the illusive hope that the shadows 
 of the loved and lost might come at his bidding ; if but to assure him 
 that they are happy in the land of spirits ; that they continue to think 
 with undying interest of those whom they have left still bending under 
 the burden of the flesh, and struggling with the trials of mortal life ; 
 to tell him that love does not moulder in the grave ! To how many 
 would it be an inexpressible boon to be allowed even but a moment 
 for pouring forth their regret in the ears of the departed (whom they 
 will not believe to be beyond the reach of earthly accents), that they 
 should ever have inflicted the sting of pain, or neglected occasions of 
 affording kindness. How many such would use the imploring 
 language of Manfred, in his pathetic address to the phantom of 
 Astarte : 
 
 " Astarte ! my beloved ! speak to me : 
 I have so much endured so much endure 
 Look on me ! the grave hath not changed thee more 
 Than I am changed for thee *_*' 
 Say that thou loath'st me not that thou wilt be 
 One of the blessed and that I shall die.
 
 214 APPAKITIONS. 
 
 " I know not what I ask nor what I seek : 
 I feel but what thou art, and what I am ; 
 And I would hear yet once before I perish 
 The voice which was my music * * * 
 Speak to me ! though it be in wrath ; but say 
 I seek not what but let me hear thee once 
 This once once more !" 
 
 Lastly. The arguments which urge the improbabilities, according 
 to the laws of nature, of a spirit being subject to the outward senses, 
 are not likely to occur to an uneducated man, nor when started to be 
 understood by him. Such appear to me to be the principal circum- 
 stances that have contributed to the popular belief in the reality of 
 spectres. 
 
 As there have not been wanting individuals of the strongest powers 
 of mind, and of the most refined attainments, who even in these days 
 have clung to the notion that immaterial beings occasionally make their 
 appearance, I trust that I shall be pardoned if I hastily run over some 
 of the improbable assumptions which such a belief implies. If we 
 grant that a spirit has actually been seen, we must also admit that it 
 has assumed a material form, capable of reflecting light upon the visual 
 organ, or of actually radiating light as when seen in a dark room, yet 
 of such tenuity as to be imperceptible to touch, and retaining a definite 
 form when merely supported by surrounding air ; that this material 
 form was an exact model of the body of the deceased, which body may 
 have been at the time completely decomposed and resolved into its 
 primal elements; that this film or simulacrum, notwithstanding the 
 extreme fineness of its physical qualities, has the power of producing 
 vibrations in the air as strong, as definite, and articulate, as those 
 which are occasioned by the complicated and strongly- exerted vocal 
 apparatus of a full-grown man ; and, moreover, bearing that peculiarity 
 of intonation which identifies it with the voice of the departed, whence 
 it appears that the simulacrum must have an internal construction ; 
 that is, a larynx and fauces, corresponding like its external appearance 
 with the organization of the same corrupted body ; and that, finally, 
 since we seldom hear of a ghost unprovided with the ordinary vest- 
 ments, or, at least, the grave-clothes of the dead, we must allow that 
 there may exist material spectra of garments, that have long ago 
 mingled their dust with the ashes of their wearer, or been dispersed 
 with the bodies of moths into almost every modification and regenera- 
 tion of matter.
 
 APPARITIONS OF LIVING PERSONS. 215 
 
 In addition to these considerations it may be remarked, that as 
 numberless well-accredited cases of apparitions of living persons have 
 occurred, and since not even the most orthodox believer in ghosts 
 would contend that they are of a spiritual essence, it seems extremely 
 unphilosophical to attempt to explain apparitions of the dead upon 
 other principles. I may here introduce an anecdote, derived from a 
 private source, and on the authenticity of which I can depend, and 
 which bears very well upon this argument. 
 
 " You are well aware that I lived for some time in the town of , during the 
 
 time that my Mend was settled there ; we were in habits of almost daily intimacy 
 frequenting each other's rooms without even the semblance of ceremony. His health 
 was not remarkably good by his own confessions, and to my mind his whole appear- 
 ance indicated very often unequivocal symptoms of the silent attack of some slow 
 wasting disease. At length . he became aware that some decisive remedy was 
 necessary to rescue him from the grave ; and accordingly, in my absence, he took his 
 departure to a neighbouring village. One morning, some time after this change of 
 residence, previously to which we had not met for some days, I was passing by his 
 room in my way to another part of the town, when I observed the casement open, 
 and my friend standing before it, simply clad in his nightdress. His countenance 
 was deadly pale, yet strongly expressive of that resignation which I knew he had 
 long laboured to acquire. In order that I might convey to his mind no additional 
 alarm, by expressing the anxiety that I really felt, I assumed a cheerful air, and 
 addressed him with my wonted friendly salutation. Instead of the usual smile and 
 reply, he glided by the window and disappeared, without the slightest change of look 
 or symptom of recognition. Some few days afterwards I met my friend by chance 
 in one of my walks, and after the usual enquiries about his health, his favourable 
 answers to which were greatly belied by his ghastly looks, I asked him if his reverie, 
 
 on morning, was so deep as to drown all recollection, and whether I might not 
 
 take that as an excuse for his not replying to his friend's morning address. ' You 
 were certainly/ added I, ' in great mental absence.' ' Yes,' replied he, ' and in bodily 
 
 absence too, for that morning I was at , as my equestrian habiliments testify. 
 
 * Impossible,' rejoined I, ' for I saw you at your window on morning. I certainly 
 
 did, or seeing is no longer believing.' His explanations, however, were too clear to 
 allow any room for doubting their accuracy, and to my mind they were fully confirmed 
 by his death, which occurred just six days from that on which I received this infor- 
 mation, in the same room, and at the same hour." 
 
 It need scarcely be remarked that the appearance here related, 
 though believed by the writer to have had some supernatural origin, 
 could not be imagined by any one to have been the spirit of the 
 individual, unless it be admitted that a soul can exist in two forms at 
 one and the same time. It was evidently nothing more than a vivid 
 impression on the mind of this person's friend. Whether it was excited 
 by supernatural influence or not is another question, though, as far as.
 
 216 APPARITIONS. 
 
 I can judge, it is sufficiently accounted for by the deep interest which 
 the gentleman felt as to his friend's health, by the suggestive influence 
 of the room occupied by the latter, and likewise by the probability 
 that some preparatory train of thought had existed previously, but 
 which was effaced by the singularity and suddenness of the fancied 
 appearance, and not remembered afterwards. But, however this may 
 be, does not the fact very strongly suggest, that, as a mere mental 
 impresssion can so strikingly assume the character of an outward 
 sensation, it is unwise to give to other appearances (differing only in 
 the circumstance of the individual being dead) an explanation that 
 requires the admission of miraculous agency ?* 
 
 The foregoing considerations are, as far as I can judge, sufficient 
 refutations of the spirituality of spectres ; but there are other circum- 
 stances strongly tending to the invalidation of the belief. At death 
 men undergo as great, perhaps a greater change, than when they 
 came into the world : " is it not, therefore," asks an able writer, " as 
 improbable that a man should return in a visible corporeal form after 
 death, as that, after having arrived at manhood, he should return to 
 the state in which he was before his birth ?" We never hear of a 
 ghost making his appearance to more than one person at a time, a 
 thing in itself very strange when the object of its appearance (as it 
 often happens) concerns many individuals. How is it, moreover, that 
 the phantom shall be visible only to one person of a company, but 
 invisible to others ? So generally was this property attributed to such 
 beings, that Shakspeare made use of it on more than one occasion. 
 Thus, when the ghost appears to Hamlet, in the presence of his 
 mother, while the prince's eyes are rivetted on the pale vision, 
 she asks, 
 
 " How is 't with you ? 
 
 That you do bend your eyes on vacancy, 
 
 And with the incorporal air do hold discourse ? 
 Whereon do you look ? 
 
 Hamlet On him ! on him ! Look you how pale he glares. 
 
 Queen To whom do you speak this ? 
 
 Hamlet Do you see nothing there ? 
 
 Queen Nothing at all yet all that is I see. 
 
 ^ * It may seem almost impertinent to remind the reader that supernatural and 
 miraculous are not synonymous terms : that the former may only imply an unearthly 
 power still making use of natural instruments, while the latter signifies that the 
 means themselves are inconsistent with the laws of nature.
 
 INCONSEQUENT ACTION OF SUPPOSED SPECTRES. 217 
 
 Hamlet Why, look you there ! look how it steals away ! 
 My father in his habit as he lived ! 
 Look where he goes, ev'n now, out of the portal," &c. 
 
 Macbeth, after his agitation on seeing the ghost of the murdered 
 Banquo in his seat at the banquet table, turns round to the guests 
 and says, 
 
 " Can such things be, 
 And overcome us like a summer cloud 
 Without our special wonder? You make me stranger 
 Even to the disposition that I own, 
 When now I think you can behold such sights, 
 And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks, 
 When mine are blanched with fear. 
 
 What sights, my lord ? " &c. 
 
 Lastly, the probability that ghosts have any real personality is 
 very strongly opposed by the circumstance, that, in the majority of 
 cases, they make their communications in a manner utterly unlike 
 what might be expected from beings sent upon a supernatural mission. 
 Capt. Grose, in his Provincial Glossary, while ridiculing the relations 
 of the credulous Glanvil, remarks, that 
 
 " In cases of murder, a ghost, instead of going to the next justice of the peace 
 and laying its information, or to the nearest relation of the person murdered, appears 
 to some poor labourer who knows none of the parties ; draws the curtain of some 
 decrepit nurse or almswoman ; or hovers about the place where the body is deposited. 
 Nor is the pointing out lost writings generally managed in a more summary way : 
 the ghost commonly applying to a third person ignorant of the whole aifair. But it 
 is presumptuous to scrutinize too far into these matters ; ghosts have, undoubtedly, 
 forms and methods peculiar to themselves." 
 
 This peculiarity in their transactions was exemplified by the 
 apparition of Sir George Yilliers, who (as we are told by Clarendon), 
 instead of visiting his son, the Duke of Buckingham, whose death he 
 predicted, chose to terrify the poor steward with the warnings of his 
 master's fate. 
 
 On taking a retrospect of the progress of the belief in apparitions, 
 it is impossible not to observe how deeply it has been involved in the 
 various forms and modifications of religion ; that at different periods 
 they interchanged assistance ; that the impugnment of the existence of 
 the one was ranked with an attack on the validity of the other. This 
 close connection must obviously have taken place from the very nature 
 of the subject. When, as in the classic mythology, not only the 
 separate existence of spirits was taught, but also their interference in
 
 218 APPAKITIONS. 
 
 the affairs of the world, under the character of gods and demigods 
 (many of them having themselves been mortal), espousing the cause 
 of particular nations, and forming connections with the human race, 
 it was all but implied that the spirits of the dead may occasionally 
 revisit the earth. The same holds good with the mythology of the 
 barbarians. There is no doubt that the exciting narrations of the 
 poets, to whose purposes apparitions are so serviceable, would increase 
 the tendency of the superstition, and impress the belief in question 
 more strongly upon their minds. But, independently of the actual 
 association of the belief with the superstition, it may be remarked, 
 that the very nature of the latter would dispose the mind to the former, 
 inasmuch as it consisted comparatively so little of rules for the restraint 
 of the passions, and the direction of conduct ; and, on the other hand, 
 contained so much that was adduced to the senses and the imagination 
 rather than to the understanding. In addition to this, the mind, under 
 its influence, became so familiarized with prodigies and remarkable 
 occurrences, that an easy explanation (divinitiis ortum") was always at 
 hand for any strange or marvellous story so easy, that to question 
 the fact was to doubt the power of the gods. If the philosopher 
 chanced to shake off this religion, the belief in apparitions departed 
 with it. Everybody knows that Lucian, an atheist, ridiculed ghosts. 
 Lucretius, like his master, Epicurus, a disbeliever in the immateriality 
 of the soul, though compelled to admit the facts of apparitions, found 
 reasons, that will be referred to hereafter, for denying their real 
 existence. The philosophers whose speculations did not assail religion 
 admitted the existence of spirits, and their influence on the minds of 
 men : such were Pythagoras, Socrates, and Plato. Christianity brought 
 nothing to dissipate the belief that we are discussing. Teaching 
 nothing that would merely gratify the curiosity of man, and satisfied 
 with communicating those precepts and principles that concerned his 
 future destinies, it never interfered with opinions that were not essen- 
 tially inconsistent with its vital truths ; neither advancing nor retarding 
 those branches of knowledge that were apart from its own sublime and 
 peculiar doctrines. While, therefore, its propagation swept away the 
 polytheism of Pagan superstition, it left untouched those opinions 
 respecting spiritual intelligences, which were dispersed among different 
 nations, and which made up their various systems of demonology, so 
 long as the unearthly beings were considered subordinate to, and 
 merely permitted to exist by, the will of the one God ; much less did
 
 RELIGIOUS SUPERSTITION. 219 
 
 it inculcate the impossibility of apparitions; but, on the contrary, 
 rather encouraged it; at least so far as the relation of miraculous 
 occurrences of the kind had a tendency to do so. 
 
 In the dark ages, when Christianity was degraded to so near a 
 similarity to Paganism ; when its priesthood, instead of informing the 
 understandings of the people by the elevating truths contained in the 
 Sacred Writings, preferred the more profitable scheme of teaching 
 just so much of the religion as would enable them to maintain their 
 dominion over the vulgar mind; and when the readiest method of 
 fulfilling this plan was, to associate with certain delusions of the senses 
 and excitations of the imagination, the particular notions which it best 
 suited their purpose to propagate ; it is not surprising that the natural 
 tendency of the human mind to believe in spirits, goblins, fairies, 
 apparitions, and the like, should have been encouraged and moulded 
 to their own wishes ; that they should have feigned that supernatural 
 sounds had attested the truth of their miraculous impostures; that 
 they had been gifted with the power of communicating with angels 
 and struggling with devils; that to their favoured eyes revelations 
 and visions had been unfolded, which elevated them to the character 
 of men set apart from the rest of the unholy world ; that they had 
 conversed with the souls of the departed, and thus become the 
 depositaries of momentous secrets. In short, we cannot wonder that 
 they should have had such ready means of convincing their fellow- 
 creatures of their irresistible claims to the most prostrate veneration 
 and submission. The jealousy of these ambitious and insolent priests 
 over such exhaustless sources of power and influence, urged them to 
 menace ecclesiastical terrors against all impeachers of the credibility 
 of their stories ; denouncing an unbeliever in miracles and super- 
 natural agencies as a foe to religion, arifl an alien from the Church. 
 So freely had the Romish ecclesiastics resorted to every invention of 
 mysticism, that after the Reformation the belief in spirits, demons, 
 ghosts, and fairies, was so identified with the errors of Popery, though 
 not essentially connected with them, that many Protestants, in the 
 first freshness of their intellectual freedom, determined to regard them 
 all as the creations of ignorance, the phantoms of superstition, and 
 the illusions of crafty impostors. Reginald Scot, in his Discovery of 
 Witchcraft, declaims most contemptuously against the whole race of 
 elves, fairies, sprites, hags, witches, ghosts, hobgoblins, pucks, robin 
 goodfellows, and the like.
 
 220 APPARITIONS. 
 
 33ut though the delicate fairies were thus roughly dismissed, and 
 hobgoblins and chimeras put to flight, witches and ghosts were not so 
 soon to loose their hold on general faith. The causes which detained 
 the former, it does not come within the limits of our plan to discuss ; 
 the latter were too closely interwoven with the histories of families 
 and individuals to be thus forgotten : they had not merely been con- 
 stant dwellers in the land of fancy, but had almost as frequently 
 seemed to have taken part and action in the real visible world ; to 
 have mingled their deeds with those of men ; to have foretold, if not 
 hastened, the most momentous of events. Addison, in speaking of 
 the poetry connected with spiritual beings, says, 
 
 " There was not a village in England that had not a ghost in it ; the church yards 
 were all haunted, every large common had a circle of fairies belonging to it, and 
 there was scarce a shepherd to be met with who had not seen a spirit." Spectator, 
 No. 419. 
 
 In addition to these incitements to belief, they were again to be 
 linked hand in hand with religion ; nay, to support and defend her 
 from assailants. In the middle of the last century, when free thinking 
 became rife, the advocates of Christianitj 7 , zealous to avail them- 
 selves of every weapon, were rejoiced to discover in the existence of 
 ghosts an inexpugnable argument against materialism and infidelity. 
 Since that period the belief has been gradually declining with the 
 accelerated decline of superstition, with the restriction of the imagi- 
 nation to its proper bounds, the cautious examination and admission 
 of facts, the exposure of frauds and impostures, and the progress of 
 physical science in general. Since researches in the material world 
 have been conducted, not as in former ages for the discovery of results 
 by vague processes of undirected experiment ; results that might 
 contribute to the profit of tke investigator, and about which it was to 
 his interest to accumulate as much secrecy as possible ; since the 
 qualities of matter and their mutual action and re-action have been 
 studied on the nobler principle of elucidating the operations of Nature, 
 discovering the laws of her action, and testing the universality of those 
 laws, a spirit of openness has been diffused into these inquiries, and the 
 avidity for finding out certain occult peculiarities has been exchanged 
 for the desire of reducing them to a consistency with the usual laws of 
 matter. It is obvious that this spirit would extend to the observation 
 of Apparitions; that the mind, even rather than minister to the 
 instinctive love of the marvellous, would feel pride at explaining, on
 
 COMMON EXPLANATIONS OF GHOST-STORIES. 221 
 
 general principles, phenomena hitherto regarded mysterious and 
 inscrutable. 
 
 We may here notice that many popular modes of depriving ghost 
 stories of their supernatural assumptions have been offered unsuccess- 
 fully. The cause of their failure has been the want of universality in their 
 applicability. In some cases, however, they afford a sufficient solution. 
 Thus false or exaggerated relation is enough to account for a great 
 number of stories. Interested purposes, such as the concealment of 
 crimes, pretended revelation of secrets, affectation of miraculous power, 
 imputation of false charges, &c., have obviously suggested the fabri^ 
 cation of tales of this description. In other instances the narrator, 
 without any intention to deceive, has given the principal circumstances 
 correctly ; but unconsciously omitted an apparently trifling fact that 
 would have satisfied more discriminating minds of the delusion ; or, as 
 Sir Walter Scott acutely observes, 
 
 " He is asked some unimportant question with respect to the apparition ; he 
 answers it on the hasty suggestion of his own imagination, tinged as it is with the 
 belief of the general fact, and by doing so, often gives a feature of minute evidence 
 which was before wanting, and this with perfect unconsciousness on his own part." 
 Scott's Demonology, p. 356. 
 
 Many stories have been referred, and with justice, to a want of 
 sufficiently correct observation. Thus individuals have seen appearances 
 which they have at once believed to be supernatural, from having been 
 prepared for their reception either by the prejudices of superstition, or 
 by some other previous state of feeling ; they have therefore neglected 
 to make further investigation, or have been rendered incapable of doing 
 so by the perturbation of fear or surprise. Years have often passed 
 away before the development of a fact which reduces the whole occur- 
 rence to a natural character. Imagination has been made to bear the 
 weight of unnumbered ghost stories ; but the fault has been, that in 
 the popular manner of interpretation, the nature of the operation has 
 not been sufficiently developed. Most persons have satisfied themselves 
 with the name, merely associating with it a vast number of unrealities, 
 whether day-dreams, night-dreams, visions, air-castles, or other things 
 well known to be imaginary; and have accordingly been ready to 
 attribute any related occurrence, not immediately explicable on physical 
 principles, to the same origin. This method has been highly attractive 
 and very generally adopted, because of its convenience, and because it 
 requires no tedious intellectual analysis. But he who has contented
 
 222 APPAKITIONS. 
 
 himself with so short and easy a way of getting rid of supernatural 
 mysteries, must frequently have been hard pushed by narratives of 
 appearances that occurred under circumstances unfavourable to any 
 extraordinary excitement of the imagination. Thus spectres have 
 been witnessed during the individual's employment about the sober 
 mechanical avocations of life, the dullest realities of this " working-day 
 world " with the senses, those usual watchers against deception, in full 
 exercise, and the judgment in perfect tone and readiness. Such cases 
 are sufficiently difficult for the interpreter, who can only call them 
 delusions of the fancy, meaning by the term nothing more than a 
 faculty of cheating the mind into belief of deceptions, and whose best 
 opportunities are during the slumber of the senses and the suspension 
 of the reason. No wonder then that from an improper, or rather a 
 defective use of this mode of explanation, it has often been baffled and 
 fallen into discredit ; since the assumed explanation is but a varied 
 expression of the fact. It is easy enough to say that an appearance 
 was all phantasy ; but such assertions do not convice the individual 
 that it was impossible that what he has seen and heard could have had 
 any reality ; that is, any existence independent of his own mind. He 
 will not by these means be directed to a consideration of the opposite 
 qualities of matter and spirit, nor will it in that way occur to him that 
 the organs which connect us with the external world are fitted for the 
 reception of material properties only, and that, although immaterial 
 essences may be exterior to us, we are not provided with the means of 
 perceiving their attributes. Hallucinations, or errors of vision, have 
 very properly been resorted to for the explanation of many cases. The 
 cases of this kind may be denominated Pseudo- Apparitions, or those 
 resulting from mere optical illusions ; in other words, produced by 
 causes connected with the organ of vision, and the action of light upon 
 it. Of this kind are alterations of the media, whether of the air or of 
 the membranes and humours of the eye, by which size and colour are 
 modified, and even particular spectra produced ; certain conditions of 
 light, fluctuation of the medium giving the appearance of motion, &c. 
 Burton was well acquainted with them. He tells us, 
 
 " Osiander beheld strange visions, and Alexander ab Alexandro, both in their 
 sickness, which he relates. Albategnius, that noble Arabian, on his deathbed saw a 
 ship ascending and descending, which Fracastorius records of his friend Baptista 
 Turrianus. Weak sight and a vain persuasion withal, may effect as much, and 
 second causes concurring, as an oar in water makes a refraction, and seems bigger, 
 bended double, &c. The thickness of air may cause such effects ; or any object not
 
 GHOST-STOEIES EXPLAINED. 223 
 
 well discerned in the dark, feare and pbantasie will suspect to be a ghost, a divel, &c. 
 Quod nimis miseri timent, hoc facile credunt, we are apt to believe and mistake in 
 such cases." Anat. of Mel., Vol. L p. 312. 
 
 To us such agents are familiar enough in the narratives of those 
 striking phenomena, the Giant of the Brocken, and the Fata Morgana ; 
 or perhaps in our own individual experience. Few persons have not 
 at some periods of their lives imagined that they saw a ghost in the 
 trunk of a beech tree, in a sign post on a dreary common, or in a 
 newly whitewashed gravestone ; or perchance, been pursued like 
 Bloomfield's old woman, by a demon donkey. Mr. Ellis tells a story 
 of the walking ghost of a cook, seen by a ship's company to follow 
 the vessel, and found afterwards to have been caused by the floating 
 of the body half raised above the water. Dr. Ferriar relates an 
 anecdote of a gentleman, who arriving late at a solitary inn by the 
 road-side, demanded a lodging for the night. He was told that all 
 the rooms were occupied, except one in which a pedlar had recently 
 committed suicide ; and which, in consequence of being haunted by 
 his ghost, had been deserted. The gentleman determined, however, to 
 brave this horror, rather than pursue his journey at so late an hour, 
 and retired to rest. Being fatigued he soon fell asleep, but imagined 
 ihat he had not been long in that state when he awoke, and on looking 
 to the opposite part of the room, beheld the ghastly phantom of the 
 pedlar standing against the wall. His first emotion was that of extreme 
 terror ; but summoning up his resolution, of which he possessed a 
 considerable share, he got out of bed to examine the spectre more 
 closely ; and on approaching it, found that the illusion was produced 
 by the moonlight playing in a particular manner upon the wall. The 
 optical deception was here, as in most other cases, evidently assisted 
 by the previous preparation of the mind. Sir David Brewster also 
 has pointed out a particular kind of optical illusion. From his obser- 
 vation of the phenomena of indirect vision and the effect of light, 
 when in great tenuity, under both which circumstances objects are apt 
 to be alternately visible and invisible, he very justly suspects that 
 many phantom tales may be accounted for by them ; since few things 
 would be more likely to suggest impressions of a supernatural nature 
 to a person walking in a faint light, than the sudden alternate disap- 
 pearance and reappearance of objects. See Srewster's Journal, No. II., 
 .and his Treatise on Optics. 
 
 Having thus touched on some of the more common methods adopted
 
 224 APPAEITIONS. 
 
 in the explanation of ghost stories, we now, in the progress of our 
 inquiry, proceed to notice opinions which entered somewhat more 
 minutely into the explanation of the appearances in question. It was 
 a doctrine taught by Epicurus, and powerfully enlarged upon by 
 Lucretius, that man is an uncompounded being, his body and soul 
 being inseparate ; the one consisting of matter in a cruder state, the 
 other of matter also, but far more refined and subtilized ; and that 
 analogy does not lead to the notion of a future condition of existence. 
 With this doctrine a belief in the possibility of the appearance of 
 spiritual beings would be utterly incompatible. But that phantom 
 figures of dead men had been witnessed, was a fact so well confirmed, 
 that these philosophers did not attempt to dispute it. Lucretius admits 
 the facts, but immediately hastens to guard against the inference, by 
 explaining the former on material principles. Thus in the 4th Book 
 he says, 
 
 " Centauros itaque & Scyllarum membra videmus, 
 Cerbereasque canum fauces ; simulacraque eorum 
 Quorum, morte obitii, tellus amplectitur ossa : 
 Onme genus, quoniam passim simulacra feruntur, 
 Partim sponte sua qure fiunt aere in ipso, 
 Partim quse variis ab rebus cumque recedunt, 
 Et quce conflciunt ex horum facta figuris." 732 738. 
 
 It is in this book that the author propounds his theory of sensation ; 
 the sum of which is, that a'SwAct, effluvia, simulacra, exuviae, films, 
 (or by whatever names these images or outer coats of objects may be 
 called), are constantly emanating from surrounding bodies, and by 
 striking the organ of sense, produce perception. In conformity with 
 this principle, if allowed, it is easy to suppose that such films or 
 images are thrown off from corpses ; that by their tenuity they pass 
 through media of earth or marble, and arrest our attention when we 
 are less affected by forcible images immediately surrounding us, as in 
 the silence of solitude, or in the deep quiet of midnight. These 
 species, he says, are so fine, that they may penetrate through the body 
 to the mind without first impinging on the sensific organ ; and in this 
 manner he explains their appearance in dreams. 
 
 Cicero alludes to this Epicurean mode of explaining the presen- 
 tation of the forms of absent individuals, in a letter addressed to 
 Cassius. Lib. xvi. Epist. 4. He ridicules the doctrine, by asking 
 whether, on thinking of any object, as the Island of Britain, an a'
 
 GHOST STOEIES IN PLINY. 225 
 
 or film of the said island flies to his breast. " Si insulam Britanniam 
 coeperis cogitare, ejus etSwXov mihi advolabit ad pectus." 
 
 But Cassius, who espoused the doctrines of Epicurus, made use of 
 them, we are told by Plutarch, to quiet the apprehension of Brutus 
 after the appearance of the ghost of Caesar ; reminding him that phan- 
 toms are of the nature of dreams, which consist of the films of objects 
 presented to the mind when in a state of great tranquillity and 
 abstraction. Pliny, in one of his Epistles, tells two or three interesting 
 ghost stories. I have translated one of them, to shew how much tales 
 of this description resembled so long ago those current in more 
 recent times. 
 
 " There was a large and roomy house at Athens that acquired a bad character 
 from the following cause. At dead of night there was wont to be heard a noise like 
 the clanking of chains, which, if you listened attentively, appeared to come at first 
 from some distance, and gradually to approach nearer ; soon after this there would 
 appear the figure of an old man, emaciated and of squalid aspect, with a long flowing 
 beard and bristling hair, with fetters on his legs, and manacles on his wrists, which 
 shook as he walked along. The inmates spent many miserable nights, not going to 
 bed from terror ; and their alarm became so great that some were taken ill and died; 
 for although the spectre did not appear in the day-time, the remembrance of the 
 nightly visitation continued to haunt their sight. At length the house was forsaken, 
 given over to solitude, and, in fact, abandoned to the ghost : a notice however was 
 put up that the house was to be disposed of, in case any one not happening to know 
 the history of it should be inclined to become a purchaser or tenant. A philosopher, 
 by name Athenodorus, having come to town, observed the notice ; and as the price 
 seemed very low, made enquiries as to the reason of its being so ; and having been 
 told the circumstances, was on that very account more anxious to hire the house for 
 a time. In the evening he ordered his bed to be made in the best room, and a lamp, 
 with writing implements, to be furnished. Having dismissed his family to the other 
 parts of the dwelling, he^ousied himself with writing, in order that his mind might 
 not, for want of other occupation, be imagining mere phantasms. At first the night 
 seemed as still as usual, but by-and-bye he heard a noise as if from the clanking of 
 fetters ; he did not look up, or leave off writing, but summoned up his resolution, 
 and closed his ears. The noise however increased, and approached so near as to 
 seem to be at the threshold; he then looked behind him, and beheld the figure 
 before described, which then stood still, and beckoned to him with its finger. The 
 philosopher made a sign to it to wait a little, and betook himself again to his tablets ; 
 but while, he was writing, the spectre made such a clatter with the chains about his 
 head, that he again turned round and saw it beckoning as before. Upon this he 
 delayed no longer, but took up the lamp and followed the ghost, which walked very 
 slowly, as if weighed down by its fetters. On coming into the area it suddenly sunk 
 downwards and disappeared ; and Athenodorus took care to mark the spot with some 
 leaves that lay about. The next day he summoned a magistrate, and advised him to 
 have the place dug ; which being done a skeleton was found with chains about it, 
 
 Q
 
 226 APPAKITIONS. 
 
 the flesh having mouldered away. The bones were collected and buried with proper 
 funeral rites ; after which the house was no longer haunted." 
 
 Pliny expresses himself to be in such a state of doubt as to the 
 true nature of these and other ^avrao-jucrra, that he begs his friend not 
 only to discuss the subject fully, but to give a decisive opinion one way 
 or the other. 
 
 The ancient Mythological division of our spiritual constitution into 
 Manes, Spiritus or Animus, and Umbra, afforded a ready explanation 
 of spiritual appearances. By the term Manes was understood the soul 
 that is destined for the lower region ; the Spiritus was admitted into 
 the abodes of the blest ; while the Umbra being the corporeal soul, 
 was condemned to remain in the vicinity of the body. There are four 
 lines, commonly attributed to Ovid, which state concisely the nature 
 and destination of these imagined principles of human nature. 
 
 " Bis duo sunt homini : Manes, Caro, Spiritus, Umbra. 
 
 Quatuor ista loci bis duo suscipiunt ; 
 Terra tegit carnem, tumulum circumvolat Umbra, 
 Orcus habet Manes, Spiritus astra petit." 
 
 It does not appear that for many centuries after the Christian epoch 
 any particular opinions were broached respecting the nature of ghosts ; 
 in fact, they were never thought to be other than what their appear- 
 ance denoted ; that is, the actual spirits of deceased individuals. The 
 only variation appears to have been, that a particular kind of devils 
 occasionally assumed the forms of the departed, or that the devil had 
 the power of working upon the imagination by vitiation of the 
 humours, so as to make men fancy they saw chimseras and ghosts. 
 Burton, in his chapter on the nature of divels, as he terms them, after 
 stating the division of spirits into aerial, fiery, water-devils, terrestrial, 
 and subterranean, says, that the terrestrial 
 
 " Many times appear to men, and affright them out of their wits ; sometimes 
 walking at noonday, and sometimes at nights : counterfeiting dead men's ghosts, as 
 that of Caligula, ' which ' saith Suetonius, ' was seen to walk in Lavinia's garden ; 
 where his body was buried, spirits haunted, and the house where he died : Nulla nox 
 sine terrore transacta donee incendio consumpta : every night this happened ; there' 
 was no quietness till the house was burned.' About Hecla, in Iceland, ghosts 
 commonly walk: animas mortuorum simulantes." See vol. i. p. 09. Anatomy of 
 Melancholy. 
 
 We cannot pass without notice an hypothesis, that was proposed in 
 the early part of the seventeenth century, to the last degree pre- 
 posterous. A sort of philosophers, who from their peculiar doctrine
 
 THE PALINGENESIANS. 227 
 
 were called Palingenesians, imagined that they had discovered with 
 sufficient certainty that the substantial form of any organic body was 
 contained in a particular volatile salt, and that on the application of 
 heat and matter containing this salt, the latter was exhaled ; that in 
 this process the saline particles assumed that kind of arrangement to 
 which they had been accustomed in the living body, and that thus a 
 regeneration was accomplished. On the removal of heat the vapour 
 condensed, and the form was lost. Experiments were said to have 
 been frequently tried on the ashes of flowers, and by due attention to 
 the operation, an apparition of a defunct flower might be seen floating 
 in the air above the crucible, and corresponding with the original to 
 the minutest particular of leaf, petals, and stalk. A transition by 
 analogy from this doctrine to an explanation of spectral appearances, 
 was far too easy and natural to escape the acumen of these subtle 
 speculators. The frames of buried men might have long since 
 mouldered into dust, but that dust contained the regenerative salt, the 
 phoenix-like principle ; heat was ever at hand in the surrounding earth 
 from various kinds of fermentation ; the saline corpuscules were 
 volatilized and made their escape into the free air ; there they arranged 
 themselves into the figure of the former animated body, and in short, 
 represented its ghost, which might either, as most commonly happens, 
 hover about the grave, or be translated by wafting winds to any given 
 situation. But the Palingenesians did not satisfy themselves with 
 mere ct, priori arguments, albeit so conclusive. Bent upon making 
 assurance doubly sure, they resolved, with true inductive rigour, to 
 put the theory to the test of an experimentum crucis. Accordingly it 
 is related, that from the crucibles of three alchemists, spirits were 
 successfully evolved in the guise of the sublimated salts. A Jesuit is 
 said to have powdered a piece of cranium, and another to have merely 
 .heated some blood, and the results, such as visions of detached heads, 
 limbs, or whole figures, were equally confirmatory of the doctrine.* 
 Sir T. Brown gave into this delusion, as appears in the following 
 passage from his Eeligio Medici : 
 
 " A plant, or vegetable, consumed to ashes, by a contemplative and school 
 philosopher, seems utterly destroyed, and the form to have taken his leave for ever ; 
 but to a sensible artist the forms are not perished, but withdrawn into their incom- 
 bustible part, where they lie secure from the action of that devouring element. 
 This is made good by experience, which can from the ashes of the plant revive the 
 jplant, and from its cinders recall it into its stalk and leaves again." P. 109. 
 
 * See Hibbert on the Philosophy of Apparitions.
 
 228 APPAEITIONS. 
 
 About the same period many philosophers were convinced that they 
 had discovered the nature of ghosts in Astral spirits, or corporeal 
 souls, as they were termed, and which were nothing more than the 
 actual forms of external bodies, and which are conveyed by the senses 
 into the mind, where they are stored up and become ideas. These 
 ideas will not be confounded with what we call ideas, and which we 
 confine within the limits of the mind : the ideas synonymous with 
 Astral spirits might be altogether external. Thus the story of a 
 shower of frogs having occurred was considered to be sufficiently 
 accounted for by saying that it was a shower of ideas of frogs. The 
 appearance of the rose in the Palingenesian experiment was the idea 
 of the rose ; and ghosts were the Astral spirits or corporeal souls, or 
 ideas attendant upon corpses. 
 
 We have remarked that the imaginative faculty has been constantly 
 referred to as the source of spectral appearances. Burton explains the 
 action in the following manner, conformably with the opinions of 
 several old authors : 
 
 "To onr imagination cometh by their outward sense or memory some object to 
 be known (residing in the foremost part of the brain) which he, misconceiving or 
 amplifying, presently communicates to the heart, the seat of all affections. The 
 pure spirits forthwith flock from the brain to the heart, by certain secret channels, 
 and signify what good or bad object was presented ; which immediately bends itself 
 to prosecute or avoid it, and withal draweth other humours to help it. So, in 
 pleasure, concur great store of purer spirits ; in sadness, much melancholy blood ; 
 in ire, choler. If the imagination be very apprehensive, intent, and violent, it semis 
 great store of spirits to or from the heart, and makes a deeper impression and 
 greater tumults." Vol. i. p. 132. 
 
 He then shews that the humours in the body may have been ill- 
 concocted, or be in excess, and accordingly bad spirits are thus sent 
 from the heart, and very much interfere with the work of the 
 imagination. Then it is seen imagination re-acts upon the heart, 
 " misinformeth it," causes alteration and confusion of spirits and 
 humours, so that other parts cannot perform their functions, and we 
 may look at things and not see them at all, or see them perverted. 
 This amusing author attributes great power to the influence of the 
 imagination of one person over that of another. 
 
 " Why do witches and old women," he asks, " fascinate and bewitch children ? 
 but (as Wierus, Paracelsus, and many philosophers, thiuk) the forcible imagination 
 of the one party moves and alters that of the other." Vol. i. p. 138. 
 
 Lavater believed that imagination could act on the mind of another
 
 SUMMARY OF VARIOUS OPINIONS. 229 
 
 at any distance, so that the imagination of a dying man might produce 
 in the mind of an absent friend a vivid idea of the visible shape of 
 the person from whom it emanated. 
 
 Isaac Walton, in his life of Dr. Donne, after a full account of a 
 vision that was presented to this gentleman during his sojourn in 
 France, adds the following curious observations : 
 
 " This is a relation that will beget some wonder, and it well may, for most of our 
 world are at present possessed with an opinion that visions and miracles are 
 ceased. And though it is most certain that two lutes heing both strung and tuned 
 to an equal pitch, and then one played upon, the other that is not touched being laid 
 upon a table at a fit distance, will, like an echo to a trumpet, warble a faint audible 
 harmony in answer to the same tune ; yet many will not believe there is any such a 
 thing as a sympathy of souls, and I am content that every one do enjoy his own 
 opinion. But if the unbelieving will not allow the believing reader of this story a 
 . liberty to believe that it may be true, then I wish him to consider that many wise 
 men have believed that the ghost of Julius Cffisar did appear to Brutus, and that 
 both St. Austin and Monica his mother had visions in order to his conversion." 
 
 Sir T. Brown was of opinion that ghosts are the production of evil 
 spirits. His words are, 
 
 "Apparitions and ghosts of departed persons are not the wandering souls of 
 men, but the unquiet walks of devils, prompting and suggesting us unto mischief, 
 blood, and villany, instilling and stealing into our hearts." * * * * 
 " That those phantoms appear often, and do frequent cemeteries, charnel-houses, 
 and churches, it is because those are the dormitories of the dead, where the devil> 
 like an insolent champion, beholds with pride the spoils and trophies of his victory 
 over Adam." Relig. Med. p. 86. 
 
 Sir Kenelm Digby, in his annotation on the above, states a different 
 opinion. He thinks that souls retain a sort of affection for the bodies 
 which they have left behind ; or, to use his own words, they 
 
 " Do retain still even in their separation a bias and a languishing towards them, 
 which is the reason why such terrene souls appear oftenest in cemeteries and charnel- 
 houses, and not that moral one which our author giveth." He adds, " The 
 impossibility cannot cure them of their impotent desires : they would fain be alive 
 again, 
 
 Iterumque ad tarda reverti 
 Corpora Quse lucis miseris tarn dira cupido." 
 
 Hobbes would have it that all apparitions might be explained as 
 the accompaniments of dreams. "These," he says, "are often so 
 short, that we are not conscious of having slept." He applies this 
 doctrine to the story of the ghost of Caesar. He says : 
 
 " Considering the circumstances, one may easily judge it to have been but a short 
 -dream. For Brutus, sitting in his tent pensive and troubled with the horror of his
 
 230 APPARITIONS. 
 
 rash act, it was not hard for him, slumbering in the cold, to dream of that which 
 most affrighted him ; which fear, as by degrees it made him wake, so it must needs 
 make the apparition by degrees to vanish; and, having no assurance that he slept, 
 he could have no cause to think it a dream, or anything but a vision." 
 
 Glanvil, a credulous author of the seventeenth century, in his 
 Sadducismus Triumphantus, endeavours to prove the existence of 
 apparitions on religious principles ; that to deny the reality of appari- 
 tions and witchcraft was to disbelieve in spirits, a life to come, and 
 other essential sacred doctrines. 
 
 Mr. Andrew Baxter, in his treatise on the nature of the soul, 
 attributed the origin of apparitions to the work of separate immaterial 
 spirits of superior intelligence, who have the power of presenting the 
 images to our minds in the same manner as dreams. He thought that, 
 although Deisidaimonia has been much abused by vain and weak- 
 minded people, and perverted to bad purposes by the artful and 
 malicious, the most rigorous philosophy cannot reject them. Had 
 Baxter not considered it necessary to introduce the action of spirits, 
 and had he traced the production of such ideas in the sensorium to the 
 natural constitution of the human mind, his opinion would have differed 
 very little from the modes of interpretation for the most part adopted 
 in the present day. 
 
 I am indebted to Mr. Hibbert's work for the opinion of Dr. Meyer, 
 who wrote in 1748. He imagined that ideas, or material forms, stored 
 up in the memory, might find their way to the organs of sense, and 
 impress them ; thus the idea of a deceased individual might reach the 
 optic nerve, and thereby produce spectres. 
 
 It is scarcely necessary to remark, that such well-known writers as 
 Addison and Johnson assented to the general belief in ghosts. They, 
 both of them, founded their conviction on the ground of universal 
 attestation. The former allowed these horrors to be often the result of 
 misapprehension, perverted association, disturbed imagination, and the 
 like ; but added, 
 
 " At the same tune I think a person who is terrified with the imagination of 
 ghosts and spectres much more reasonable than one who, contrary to the reports of 
 all historians, sacred and profane, ancient and modern, and to the traditions of all 
 nations, thinks the appearance of spirits fabulous and groundless." Spectator, 
 No. 110. 
 
 Johnson insists on the same position in a variety of places, as in 
 his discussion of Second Sight, in his tour to the Hebrides ; and in the
 
 DR. JOHNSON. 231 
 
 many occasions of conversation upon the subject, as reported by Boswell. 
 In Kasselas, Imlac is made to state the argument thus 
 
 " That the dead are seen no more, I will not undertake to maintain, against the 
 concurrent and unvaried testimony of all ages and of all nations. There is no 
 people, rude or learned, among whom apparitions of the dead are not related and 
 believed. This opinion, which, perhaps, prevails as far as human nature is diffused, 
 could become universal only by its truth; those that never heard of one another 
 would not have agreed in a tale which nothing but experience can make credible. 
 That it is doubted by single cavillers, can very little weaken the general evidence ; 
 and some who deny it with their tongues, confess it by their fears." 
 
 It is needless to quote any other passages in demonstration of the 
 opinions of this extraordinary man, whose mind is so often referred to 
 as a specimen of the mixture of prejudice and superstition, with 
 habits of rigorous deliberation and research. I cannot help thinking, 
 however, that there was no necessity for the interposition of a super- 
 stitious bias to decide his judgment. Like Addison, he does not appear 
 to have directed his attention to the physical difficulties of the subject, 
 nor does it seem to have occurred to him, that conceptions of sensible 
 objects may, by various circumstances, become so intense as to excite a 
 conviction of their reality, exactly equivalent to that produced by 
 objects actually subjected to sensation. He, therefore, required no 
 inclination to the mysterious in order to receive the simple argument 
 of universal consent : since it was necessary either to impugn it alto- 
 gether, or to find some method of explaining it away. The fact is, 
 that this universal testimony implied not only facts, but assumptions. 
 Thus people in all ages have avowed that they have experienced 
 certain visual perceptions, resembling the forms and faces of departed 
 individuals. This part of their statement was matter of fact ; but 
 when they asserted the phenomena to have been spirits, they were 
 indulging in a sort of unconscious dogmatism, which ought to be 
 weighed when we are estimating the value of their testimony. Never- 
 theless, it cannot be denied that, as it happened, the mind of this 
 remarkable man was disposed to the supernatural. His disposition to 
 abstract contemplation must have led him to look with interest at any 
 communication between the invisible world and that surrounding him; 
 and more than this, his constitutional melancholy, aggravated by 
 sedentary habits, threw a shade of hypochondriacal timidity over his 
 religion, which caused him at all times to lean rather to the side of 
 superstition than to run the risk of incurring the displeasure of supernal 
 powers, by withholding his assent from mysteries, which, if difficult to
 
 232 APPARITIONS. 
 
 elucidate, were only so from their elevation above the range of all 
 human comprehension. 
 
 About the year 1810 Dr. Ferriar published his work entitled, An 
 Essay towards a Theory of Apparitions. The chief merit of this work 
 is, that it is a very interesting collection of cases of spectral impres- 
 sions, proved to be independent of an agency external to the individuals 
 who were the subjects of them, and, in a great proportion of them, to 
 have been connected with certain bodily conditions. At the com- 
 mencement he refers to the law of the economy, whereby an impression 
 may remain on the retina after the removal of the impressing cause ; 
 and, in the course of the work, endeavours to shew that, under certain 
 morbid dispositions of the brain, these impressions are more liable to 
 be renewed. The hypothesis is scarcely at all developed ; and many 
 facts are mentioned which it is incapable of explaining. 
 
 Since this publication, Dr. Hibbert has sent forth his philosophy 
 of apparitions. He treats the subject with great elaborateness and 
 ingenuity ; and, although I do not myself feel inclined to follow him 
 through all the subtleties of his speculations, the work must, I imagine, 
 be allowed by all who have perused it, to contain a far greater mass 
 of information, and, on the whole, more philosophical reflections, than 
 any other treatise on the subject. 
 
 Sir We Scott's popular letters on Demonology and Witchcraft do 
 not require any thing more than mere mention at the end of this hasty 
 summary of opinions. 
 
 The general view which appears to me to afford the best interpre- 
 tation of these phenomena, is this ; that they consist of ideas of 
 sensible objects, derived either from memory or imagination, but 
 vivified to the intensity of perceptions resulting from impressions on 
 the organs of sense. This view differs from Dr. Hibbert's, insomuch 
 as he confines them to ideas simply reproduced, thereby leaving 
 no room for ideas created, or, rather, newly combined by the imagi- 
 native faculty. Dr. Bostock, in an Appendix to his Physiology, 
 mentions that he was himself, when out of health, visited by some 
 spectral figures ; but he particularly specifies that the shapes and 
 features were entirely dissimilar to any thing that he had before per- 
 ceived. In a healthy state of mind, ideas of sensible objects are, as 
 every one knows, very inferior in vivacity to actual impressions. 
 Were not this the case, we should frequently be at a loss to know how 
 to distinguish a remembered or fancied image, from that of a thing
 
 SIR WALTER SCOTT. 233 
 
 really and substantially presented to our senses. The external world 
 would be confounded with the internal; the past would no longer 
 wear a shadowy aspect, nor the present be recognized by the bright- 
 ness and liveliness of its colouring. But there are certain conditions 
 of mind in which a remembrance is endued with the hues and 
 lineaments of an immediate object of sense, and a mere creation of 
 fancy assumes such strength of outline and completeness of parts, as 
 to seem a reality. The ghost, then, of a departed individual, is 
 nothing, more than his recollected image, so preternaturally vivified, as 
 to be mistaken for an external visible object ; and, in like manner, his 
 voice is only a collection of renewed impressions of sound, of an equal 
 intensity with what they formerly possessed when produced by vibra- 
 tions of air affecting the auditory nerve. In such cases, it is manifest 
 that the ordinary balance between perceptions and ideas is altered ; 
 that there is an unnatural excess of one series of mental phenomena 
 over the other ; in fact, that the mind, from some cause or other, labours 
 under disease. The suddenness of accession, and the transitory con- 
 tinuance, do not interfere with this view, since the body, when deranged 
 in its functions, for however short a time, is, strictly speaking, in a 
 morbid condition ; an all but momentary fit of dyspnoea, a sudden 
 pain darting through the head, a sensation of faintness, are all 
 specimens of disease, that is, deranged function. But if disorder of 
 the mind constitutes insanity, it would be verbally correct to say, that 
 the individual who sees a ghost is, during the vision, nothing more or 
 less than a temporary lunatic. Those who have read Sir Walter 
 Scott's Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, will remember that he 
 draws a distinction between insanity and ghost-seeing, although he 
 allows that the latter may be the means of inducing the former, and 
 vice versd. He considers that spectral illusions are occasioned by errors 
 in some part of the apparatus of vision, in the same manner that 
 other false notions are produced by aberrations in the other senses, as 
 those of taste and smell. He then shews how similarly false ideas 
 may arise, not from derangement of the sense, but from a defect in the 
 mind only, which he says is the case in insanity. In other words, the 
 mind of the ghost-seer is betrayed by some aberration in the organ of 
 sense ; but, as Sir W. himself expresses it, 
 
 " In cases of insanity, the mind of the patient is principally affected, -while the 
 senses, or organic system, offer in vain to the lunatic their decided testimony against 
 the fantasy of a deranged imagination."
 
 234 APPAEITIONS. 
 
 In illustration, he adduces the case of a poor maniac, in the 
 Infirmary of Edinburgh, who fancied that he sat down every day to a 
 sumptuous banquet, " though, somehow or other, every thing he ate 
 tasted of porridge." This distinction, it appears, depends altogether 
 on the opinion that Apparitions a/re produced by derangement in the 
 sensific organ, to a certain degree, independently of the mind ; but if 
 we regard them as the results of causes not necessarily connected with 
 the outward organ, the distinction will not hold good. But without 
 insisting on this, there are many cases of insanity itself, particularly 
 those belonging to the division of Monomania, which are the effect of 
 disordered perception, the mind itself having previously been con- 
 sidered sound, and being actually so on"all other subjects.^ Thus one 
 man is troubled with a sensation, that his legs are so extremely soft, 
 that they must be enclosed in a box, lest they should be melted by the 
 approach of heat ; and another feels his nose to be so large, that in 
 walking the streets, he calls out to drivers of carriages to beware of 
 running against it ; in these instances, the conviction produced by 
 sensation is so strong, that the judgment has no power to resist it. 
 Insanity is, perhaps, the vaguest of all terms. In strict philosophy, 
 it ought to include every instance of disordered mental action, and 
 then none would be secure from the application of it, at least at some 
 few periods of their lives. But the painful nature of certain degrees 
 of insanity has occasioned the restriction of the term to such kinds of 
 derangement, as induce a belief in things morally and physically 
 impossible, or a belief utterly at variance with universal belief, and 
 therefore rendering the individual unworthy of trust ; or such as lead 
 to sudden deviations from the usual manners, habits, and conduct, 
 either of himself, or of society in general. If, then, we confine insanity 
 to that sort of aberration which bears these characteristics, and others 
 of a similar nature, that might be mentioned ; and, in fact, apply the 
 name, not so much to mere disordered mind, as to that state of mind 
 which produces certain results, principally of a practical nature ; it 
 must be allowed, that disordered perception is not enough to constitute 
 a man a lunatic, till it has deceived him into certain belief or actions ; 
 and so far the separation of spectral illusions from insanity is correct : 
 but it is evident that it cannot be founded on any opposition of the 
 essential mental conditions, but merely on the intensity of the percep- 
 tion, which might, under certain circumstances, acquire sufficient 
 strength to pervert the judgment to such an extent, as would warrant
 
 SLEEP AND WAKING. 235 
 
 the imputation of insanity. The unfortunate gentleman, who was 
 constantly persecuted by the vision of a skeleton, and whose melan- 
 choly narrative is strikingly related by Sir W., might, with less 
 self-control, or even less caution in communication, have easily been 
 betrayed into conduct and conversation, that, in the opinion of spectators, 
 would have been held sufficient ground for the suspicion of lunacy. 
 I observe that Celsus makes one of his subdivisions of insanity to 
 consist of spectral illusions ; and he specifies that the judging faculty 
 is unimpaired. His words are " quidam imaginibus, non mente 
 falluntur ; quales insanientem Ajacem vel Orestem percepisse poetse 
 ferunt."* 
 
 To return from this digression. In order that we may better 
 develope that derangement of the mental phenomena in which ghost- 
 seeing originates, it will be well to take a moment's glance at the 
 healthy conditions of sleep and waking, and the various deviations 
 from them : those from the former being Dreams, Somnambulism, and 
 Sleep-talking ; and those from the latter, Reverie, and the disorder 
 which we are considering. Sleep and waking are not placed at the 
 heads of different classes of occurrences, as if opposed to each other, 
 for the one is only negative of the other ; but they are thus arranged 
 for the sake of convenience, because the other two sets of conditions 
 are those into which they respectively pass. They all, however, 
 individually differ from each other as it respects the relation between 
 sensation and motion on the one hand, and thought on the other. Let 
 us look at the existence of the sleeper. It is, with reference to the 
 external world, scarcely superior to that of a vegetable ; the mere 
 organic functions continue, but those of relation, as they are called, 
 namely, the senses and muscular motion, are suspended. Whether 
 thought continues, is a point not agreed upon, some considering this 
 function to be likewise suspended ; others holding its continuance 
 essential to the existence of the soul, since the latter is unknown to us, 
 except in the various states of sensation and reflection. Those who 
 hold this opinion, must believe therefore, that in sleep the ideas are so 
 faint, or of so uniform a vividness, as to awaken no consciousness 
 (meaning by consciousness that state of the mind in which it refers a 
 past and present feeling to the same individual self) ; or they must 
 believe that both ideas and consciousness are so faint and indistinct, as 
 not to be remembered. It must have been matter of experience to 
 
 * Gels, de Med. iii. 18.
 
 236 APPARITIONS. 
 
 almost every one, that his sleep has often appeared to have been unac- 
 companied with thought, that is, with dreams, till some time afterwards 
 an accidental feeling or idea will, by some suggestion of resemblance 
 or contrast, or merely from having been co-existent, recall the hitherto 
 unremembered subject of the dream, and occasionally at so remote a 
 period, that having only the remembrance of the feeling or idea, 
 without the circumstances of time and place, he is almost inclined to 
 fancy that his soul had existed in some other form.* 
 
 But whether we incline or not to the supposition, that in perfect 
 sleep all thought is extinguished, it is sufficiently evident that our 
 mental connection with the external world is suspended ; the nerves of 
 the senses become dull to the usual impressions, no influence of volition 
 is transmitted to the muscles, and that sense which conveys the most 
 numerous and vivid impressions to the mind, and which is perhaps 
 most easily excited, not only shares in the general torpor, but is also 
 provided with the means of mechanical exclusion from the stimulus 
 which acts upon it. The necessity of such an apparatus being appended 
 to the eye, is, that its sensations produce in the mind the strongest 
 recognition of the external world ; or, in other words, they are least 
 apt to be intermixed and confounded with the internal ideas. The 
 most common imperfection of sleep is, as we all know, the state of 
 dreaming. The senses may still be as firmly closed to external objects, 
 as in the most complete degree of slumber ; the only difference being, 
 that the ideas are sufficiently vivid to excite consciousness and remembrance, 
 and, in fact, to produce the same effect on the belief as external 
 sensations. Occasionally, during the continuance of this state, impres- 
 sions are made upon some of the senses ; but as they are not sufficiently 
 vivid to be contrasted with the internal impressions, in consequence of 
 the torpor of the nerves, (and which torpor is perhaps increased by the 
 excitement of the ideas, on the principle that greater action in one part 
 of the system induces corresponding depression in another,) the two 
 classes of impressions are intermixed ; they are not observed to proceed 
 from different causes, and the individual is not brought to a conviction 
 of his exact relation to things really external. But not only may the 
 sensation from without fail to arouse the dreamer, from the want of 
 preponderating intensity, it may even assist in the prolongation of his 
 condition ; for if it harmonizes with the subject, it will invest it with 
 that feeling of reality which accompanies all perceptions of sense. 
 
 * Plat, in Phsedon.
 
 SOMNAMBULISM AND SLEEP-TALKING. 237 
 
 Such is sometimes the perverse effect of a sound that was intended to 
 awaken us. 
 
 Somnambulism is a still greater deviation from sleep. The latter is 
 SO imperfect, that the desire of locomotion and actual exercise of the 
 organs take place, and sometimes without any excitation of the senses. 
 But often external impressions and perceptions occur, yet still so 
 deficient in vividness, in consequence either of the dulness of the nerves 
 or of the slightness of the agency, that they present no decided contrast 
 to the internal ideas, and the individual accordingly walks about, 
 avoids obstacles, and sees and touches objects without being awake. 
 Let him be subjected to a strong impression, such as a vivid flash of 
 light, or a sharp blow, or a loud noise, and the equilibrium is at once 
 destroyed, the external world is recognised, and so suddenly, and under 
 circumstances so inconsistent and unusual, that considerable fright is 
 occasioned. 
 
 Sleep-talking does not differ in its nature from somnambulism : in 
 both conditions the action of muscles is excited ; but in the one the 
 organs are those of locomotion, in the other, those employed in the 
 modulation of sounds. 
 
 "We now come to the state of Waking. Here the nerves of sense 
 have recovered their excitability, and the impressions produced are ' 
 therefore so vivid, that the mind distinctly perceives and appreciates 
 the qualities of external objects, at once distinguishing them from the 
 products of memory and imagination, which are now proportionally 
 fainter. 
 
 From this condition, however, the individual may again pass into a 
 state somewhat resembling somnambulism ; viz., that of reverie. His 
 ideas may from certain causes acquire such great intensity, that the 
 sensations, even if they continue as strong as usual, will make less 
 impression, or, in other words, will have less excess of vividness ; the 
 result will be, that the person will not be fully aware of the presence 
 of the real external world, and if aroused by a powerful impression, 
 will start as from a state of somnambulism, but with less alarm, 
 because the circumstances are reversed, that is, the time and place are 
 fitting. The starting originates in the perturbation occasioned by all 
 sudden changes in the states of the mind. 
 
 We are now brought to another variety in the relation between 
 perceptions and ideas, in many respects analogous to the last mentioned, 
 viz., spectral illusions. It is not necessary, as in reverie, that all the
 
 238 APPAKITIONS. 
 
 ideas should be vivified, but some particular visual conception is, by 
 some agent or other, vivified to the height of sensations, and confounded 
 with them. External objects are still recognised, but the image being 
 of equal liveliness is intermixed, and attracts the more attention on 
 account of the novelty and singularity of the circumstances. It is easy 
 to conceive that if the idea should happen to be the image of a deceased 
 individual, a conviction of something supernatural or miraculous is a 
 very probable result. The illusions, however, may assume every 
 variety, from the presentation of indifferent or even pleasing objects, 
 such as plants, animals, faces, known or unknown, to the apparition 
 of the wanderer from the charnel house, the visitation of the daemons 
 of superstitions, and the angels or monsters of a creative imagination. 
 Nicolai, in the relation of own case, says, 
 
 " I generally saw human forms of both sexes, but they usually appeared not to 
 take the smallest notice of each other, moving as in a market place, where all are 
 eager to press through the crowd : at times, however, they seemed to be transacting 
 business with each other. I also saw several times people on horseback, dogs, and birds- 
 All these phantasms appeared to me in their natural size, and as distinct as if alive ; 
 exhibiting different shades of carnation in the uncovered parts, as well as in 
 different colours and fashions in their dresses, though the colours seemed somewhat 
 paler than in real nature. None of the figures appeared particularly terrible, comical, 
 .or disgusting ; most of them being of an indifferent shape, and some having a 
 pleasing appearance." Nicholson's Journal, vol. vi. 
 
 The next step in our inquiry is, to consider in what part of the 
 system the renovation of former perceptions takes place. Dr. Ferriar, 
 in his Essay on Apparitions, assumes that the retina is the seat of 
 recollected images, without entering into any argument on the subject. 
 Dr. Hibbert has a chapter upon it, in which he endeavours to shew 
 that the organ of sensation must be the medium by which a past 
 feeling is reproduced : and the first presumption which he offers is, 
 that since an idea is nothing more than a past feeling revived with a 
 degree of intensity proportional to that of the original impression, 
 " the susceptibility (to use his own words) of the mind to sensations 
 and ideas must refer to similar circumstances of corporeal structure." 
 But if we entertain this suspicion, we must extend it to tlie ichole of the 
 structure with which the sensation is connected. The Doctor, how- 
 ever, appears to have overlooked this, and makes no mention of the 
 brain and spinal marrow, and those parts of the nerves intermediate 
 to the central system and their extremities, expanded on the external 
 -organ. The affection of the trunk of the nerves, and of its attach-
 
 THE ORGAN OF RECOLLECTION. 239 
 
 ment in the sensorium, are links in the chain of corporeal occurrences, 
 antecedent to that state of mind in which simple sensation consists, 
 and equally important with that condition of the extremity which 
 follows the application of the external agent : they might easily be 
 proved to be far more important, since the external organ is quite 
 incapable of perception when its connection with the brain is dissolved : 
 but there are pathological facts which shew that sensations are excited 
 independently of the organ (as it is called, though in fact only a part 
 of the apparatus). Thus the pressure of tumors on the olfactory 
 nerves within the cranium has been known to occasion various kinds 
 of smell ; disorder in the brain, whether functional or structural, will 
 cause an individual to hear noises, as in the affection which from this 
 symptom has been named corybantism ; and injury of the spine will 
 produce every variety of feeling, prickling, numbness, heat, coldness, 
 &c. As far, then, as the a priori argument is concerned, the organ of 
 sensation, that is, the extremity of the nerves, is the least likely part 
 of the bodily apparatus to be affected, and the brain the most likely, 
 because it can excite sensation without the assistance of those pro- 
 longations of its substances, which are spread out for the reception of 
 such occasions for sensation as are afforded by external objects. 
 
 But let us proceed to examine the facts adduced by Dr. Hibbert in 
 support of the position. 
 
 The first are the cases of Sir H. Davy and two other gentlemen, who on respiring 
 nitrous oxide, experienced, besides intense mental excitement, several modifications 
 of the sense of touch ; the Baronet perceiving a " tangible extension," as he termed 
 it, the others suffering rheumatic pains and feelings of fatigue in various parts of 
 the body. 
 
 But there does not appear to me to be any thing in these cases that 
 may not be explained quite as well by saying, that certain sensations 
 were either produced or renewed in the sensorium by the gas which is 
 so strong an agent on the nervous system, and were referred by habit 
 to certain parts of the body with which they, or similar feelings, had 
 been accustomed to be connected ; or if it must be supposed that the 
 stimulus of the gas is in some way applied, perhaps through the 
 circulation, to the extremities of the nerves themselves, the impressions 
 on them must be considered in the light of new impressions conveyed 
 to the central organ, and resembling former sensations in those parts ; 
 but are not to be treated as mere renovated feelings, without any 
 impressing cause. The same interpretation is applicable to the 
 amusing instances which he relates of
 
 240 APPAEITIONS. 
 
 Persons during their dreams, or fits of delirium, or under the delusion of phan- 
 tasms, imagining themselves to have heen the suhjects of bodily torture, such as the 
 narratives " that the familiar of one man struck him on the right or left ear, as he 
 did well or ill that to another individual an angel came with a similar purport, 
 
 ' And whipped the offending Adam out of him ' 
 
 That a third visionary fancied he was scourged on a bed of steel by devils that a 
 lad was killed by a spirit from a box on the ear," &c. 
 
 Dr. H. next brings forward a fact to prove that in the same manner 
 as the nerves of touch are the medium of the production of an idea of 
 touch, so the retina is the seat of a renovated visual image. It is an 
 anecdote of a friend of Nicolai, 
 
 "Who one night lying awake, with his eyes fixed on the door, fancied that he saw 
 it open, and a tall figure enter the room. 
 
 The Doctor argues, that the image of the real door was effaced by the 
 fantastical image of an open door being formed on that part of the 
 retina occupied by the other. Now, to say the least, it was an extra- 
 ordinary coincidence that the former image of an open door, supposed 
 to have been renovated, should have exactly fitted the space left by the 
 effacement of the recent image of the closed door. But surely it would 
 be quite as natural a supposition that the open door was an impression 
 in the sensorium, which, from its intensity and connection with the 
 apparition, diverted the attention of the individual from the real visible 
 perception. The remaining illustration of Dr. H.'s argument is 
 derived from some observations of Sir David Brewster on ocular 
 spectra. It will perhaps be remembered that some time ago there 
 was a sharp controversy between Sir David and Sir Charles Bell, on 
 the mobility or immobility of ocular spectra ; the latter asserting that 
 they are only movable when the position of the eye is altered by its 
 own muscles, in illustration of his doctrine, that our notions of position 
 and motion depend on those voluntary muscular contractions necessary 
 for adjusting the eye to distances; while the former laboured to prove 
 that the spectra do actually move, and that they must do so on optical 
 principles, when the eye is moved by the finger, although the change 
 of position is less perceptible. Dr. H. sides with Sir David ; but 
 whichever be right, and we have not time to state the respective 
 reasonings, both the antagonists assert the mobility of the spectra from 
 one cause or other. I do not see, however, that it follows from this 
 that images of visible things must necessarily be reproduced in the 
 external organs ; and for this reason : a spectral impression, such as 
 that which is left immediately after the presence of a luminous body,
 
 THE SEAT OF SENSIBLE IMPKESSIONS. 241 
 
 is surely very different from the mental image of that body recalled 
 under ordinary circumstances. A person fixes his eye on a lamp, and 
 then, having gone into a dark room, sees the spectrum of the lamp 
 exactly equalling in vividness the object recently applied ; but after a 
 short time the phenomenon vanishes, and he can only form such an 
 idea of it, as all recollections of sensible impressions are accustomed 
 to produce. The vividness of the image in the former case appears to- 
 me to be attributable to the continuation, not a reproduction, of that 
 affection of the retina which results from the application of the body, 
 and which occasions the vividness of the first sensation. 
 
 So far then these experiments do not decide the question ; but Sir 
 David avers, that under certain conditions of mind, as when abstracted 
 from the influence of visible objects, ideas recalled by the memory or 
 created by the imagination, acquire sufficient vivacity and distinctness 
 to allow them to be subjected to examination, like the spectra left by 
 the impressions of luminous bodies ; and that they are found to follow 
 the motions of the eye and head. He mentions it, however, with 
 diffidence, as being the result of his own experience only. A recent 
 writer in the ^Quarterly Review (in an article on Dr. Abercrombie's 
 work on the Intellectual Powers) adduces the circumstances as a general 
 observation, without mentioning whether he had himself experienced 
 it. But allowing the accuracy of it, I do not think that we have any 
 thing here upon which to found an opinion as to the seat of impres- 
 sions renewed under common circumstances ; for when conceptions have 
 attained so great a liveliness as to be susceptible of the examination 
 referred to, I do not see in what respect they differ from Apparitions 
 or immediate perceptions of sense. They can scarcely be called 
 remembrances, for they do not involve the idea of the past, as is the 
 case with ideas less vivid ; nor yet imaginations, because they do not 
 afford the conviction of their unreality or distinctness from the external 
 world immediately present. I am indisposed to believe that sensible 
 images, recalled in the usual operations of memory and imagination, 
 take place in the external organs, from the following considerations. 
 We often think of an absent individual during our employment in 
 something that necessarily occupies outward senses ; perhaps while 
 pursuing our way along the crowded streets of a metropolis, we may 
 see, with the mind's eye, our friend on a desolate heath, in the deep 
 stillness of twilight, and listen to his conversation, just as we saw and 
 
 * Quarterly Keview, July, 1831. 
 B
 
 242 APPARITIONS. 
 
 heard him on the evening that we accompanied him in his walk through 
 that scene ; yet all this time our eyes are occupied, as we manifest by 
 the care with which we avoid contact with obstacles of various kinds, 
 and our ears are constantly assailed by the din of a thousand cries, 
 and the incessant rumbling of vehicles. Again, while perusing a 
 tale or drama, the scenes and characters described are present to the 
 mind, at the time that the very act of reading proves the eyes to be 
 occupied by the page and letters of the book. We might mention 
 many similar instances incompatible with the notion that conceptions 
 are produced in the organ of sense. There is a fact of a different 
 kind, equally unfavourable to such an opinion. Individuals who have 
 lost the power of seeing, either from paralysis of the optic nerves, or 
 from extirpation of the eyes, are yet capable of conceptions of visual 
 objects. For an example we have only to remember the poet who was 
 the portrayer of the scenery of Paradise, and the sublime apostro- 
 phizer of Light ; notwithstanding, to use his own words, " so thick a 
 drop serene had quenched his orbs." If then, as appears to me most 
 probable, the organ of sense, or the extremity of the nerve, is not used 
 in the ordinary renewal of perceptions, let us inquire what evidence 
 there is that, when conceptions become as intense as present perceptions, this 
 part of the system is made use of. We have just mentioned Sir David 
 Brewster's observations as to the motions of the recalled figures 
 corresponding with those of the eyes and head. An opposite statement 
 is made in a paper published in the first Number of the Journal of the 
 Royal Institution, entitled " Contributions to the Physiology of Vision," 
 and professing to be condensed from some observations by Dr. 
 Purkindje ; the statement is that mental spectra differ from ocular 
 spectra, inasmuch as they are not moveable. But Dr. Bostock, in his 
 Physiology, has furnished us with a case, the more valuable and 
 interesting from being his own, and in which, from the long continuance 
 of the phenomena, he had ample opportunities of making observations. 
 He mentions, that when recovering from an attack of ill health, he for 
 three days was constantly in company with spectres, and he expressly 
 states, that they altered their position according to the direction of his 
 eyes. At first sight this fact seemed all but definitive in favour of the 
 view which we are contesting ; but on consideration I was disposed to 
 think differently. In the first place it is necessary to bear in recollec- 
 tion, that the mind has a tendency to associate ideas with those of the 
 same degree of vividness : thus, in the first remembrance of an absent
 
 THE BRAIN AND NOT THE RETINA. 243 
 
 friend, he is surrounded by the places and circumstances in which we 
 formerly saw him ; it is only by a difficult effort that we associate his 
 image with the external world, that is, with immediate impressions of 
 sense ; and then we at once perceive that he does not belong to them, 
 that there is an incongruity in their union. But if by the action of 
 some morbific cause this image of our friend acquires a certain intensity, 
 it is all but impossible to connect him with the scene and circumstances 
 in which we formerly beheld him, because they are now of unequal 
 vividness ; he accordingly takes his station among the objects before 
 our eyes, or, in other words, is projected into the field of vision. Now 
 when we move our eyes, a new field is of course presented to us, but 
 the vivified image is still associated with the visible objects, and the 
 idea of motion is produced in the same complex manner, as when, on 
 observing a distant carriage, we discover that it moves, not by the 
 feeling consequent on a change of place on the retina (for in this 
 instance it is too slight), but by seeing it in connection with new objects 
 in the landscape. But the question immediately occurs, How is the 
 phenomenon to be explained when observed in the dark ? Dr. Bostock 
 does not mention whether he examined the mobility of the illusions 
 under this circumstance ; but let us take it for granted that he did. 
 The intensified image cannot unite itself to those faint conceptions of 
 objects with which it was formerly connected; and there are no other 
 impressions of equal vividness (in consequence of the absence of light) 
 with which it may join company, and it therefore follows the law of 
 those feelings which are excited by the stimulus of light on the retina, 
 and which do not differ in their nature from it, respectively to the 
 mind, though derived from a different source ; in short, it becomes 
 .associated (like the sensations of colour, which are, perhaps, the only 
 immediate effects of the application of light) with certain ideas of 
 distance, figure, and position, external to our bodies ; and, in fact, 
 excites the same impression on the mind, namely, that of vision. On 
 moving the eye, the image is accompanied with the feeling of motion, 
 simply because, when looking attentively at objects, we axe accustomed to 
 see them in the direction of the axis of the eyes ; this direction being 
 changed by the movement of the organ, the relative situation of the 
 image is also changed, and the idea of motion is the result. 
 
 Such are my reasons for thinking that renovated impressions, 
 whether of their ordinary or of excessive intensity, are independent of
 
 244 APPAKITIONS. 
 
 the nerves distributed on the external organ, and therefore that 
 Apparitions are not to be referred to affections of the retina. This 
 view is supported by the important fact, that while in the cases of 
 spectral illusions resulting from corporeal disease the brain is evidently 
 the seat of morbid action, there is no proof of the retina being inde- 
 pendently affected. The Quarterly Reviewer before alluded to, allows 
 that in the renewal of an impression the sensorium is first affected r 
 but endeavours to maintain the position that the impression is trans- 
 mitted to the nerve, in other words, that the nerve is likewise affected. 
 That this takes place in ordinary remembrance, certain circumstances 
 which have been mentioned, are, I think, sufficient to disprove ; but I 
 do not see any impossibility in such a transmission, when the impression 
 is unnaturally vivified ; and it appears indeed somewhat probable,, 
 from the well-known fact that those parts of the nervous system which 
 have been used to be associated in their action, are ever ready to sym- 
 pathize ; and thus when a certain part of the brain immediately 
 concerned in the recalled impression is, from some cause or other, 
 excited, and which, from its connection, had often been excited at the 
 same time with a spot on the retina, the latter becomes likewise 
 affected. But though we admit the probability of such consenting 
 action, what has been already said, is, I trust, sufficient to shew 
 that the reproduction of the sensation takes place independently of it. 
 We shall now endeavour to investigate some of the causes to whose 
 agency must be referred that alteration in the due relation between 
 perceptions and conceptions, which occasions an Apparition. Ideas 
 may attain the same intensity as sensible impressions, in the two 
 following states. First, where, either from the condition of the organ 
 of sense, or the deficiency of stimulus to that organ, the sensations are 
 faint, and therefore reduced to a degree of vividness approaching to, 
 or on a par with that of ideas ; and Secondly, where the sensations- 
 being of the usual intensity, the ideas are, from various causes, 
 unnaturally excited to the same degree ; the difference being, that in 
 the one case the sensations are lowered to the ideas, but in the other 
 the ideas are elevated to the sensations. Under the former may b& 
 arranged many cases of hallucination, waking-dreams, &c. Thus 
 when a person is half asleep, whether prior to full sleep or on his- 
 progress towards waking, that is, when the nerves of sense are torpid, 
 though not wholly insensible to impressions, and surrounding objects.
 
 CAUSES OF OPTICAL ILLUSIONS. 245 
 
 assume a shadowy indistinct outline, it is then that his mental shadows 
 or phantasms are liable to be confused with the former. Every one 
 must have experienced this more or less, while dozing ; but if it should 
 happen that one of the mental images was the figure of a deceased 
 individual, his feelings are perturbed, he becomes completely awake in 
 an instant, and the more readily from the slightness of the torpor that 
 oppressed his senses, and he then believes that he has seen a ghost. 
 He perhaps communicates his conviction to some one, and on its being 
 suggested that he must have been troubled with a dream, he asserts 
 the insufficiency of such an explanation, because he remembers that 
 the apparition was present, near the chair or table, or any other article 
 of furniture in the room. Many a ghost story has doubtless been 
 built on such a foundation as this. 
 
 " In sleep, what forms will ductile fancy take, 
 
 And what so common as to dream awake ?" Crabbe. 
 
 Similar illusions may occur when the person is quite awake ; but in 
 these the cause of the faintness of the sensations is not the nerve, but 
 the deficiency of light. Nothing is more common than to hear that 
 ghosts made their appearance at twilight, or by moonlight, or in the 
 thin- grey light of approaching dawn. Sir W. Scott makes the White 
 Lady of Avenel describe herself as follows : 
 " That which is neither ill nor well, 
 That which helongs not to heaven nor to hell ; 
 A wreath of the mist, a bubble of the stream, 
 'Twixt a waking thought and a sleeping dream ; 
 A form that men spy, 
 With the half-shut eye, 
 In the beams of the setting sun am I." 
 
 When light is of this feeble kind, and objects* consequently indistinct 
 and vapoury, they are as liable as in the former instances to be con- 
 founded with internal conceptions, especially if the mental figures are 
 somewhat more vivid than usual. 
 
 * A lady who was under my care some time ago, having been subject to many other 
 nervous derangements, used to complain, that when the shades of evening came on 
 she was tormented with the vision of hideous faces, uncouth figures, and other 
 unpleasant appearances, but they were immediately charmed away by the arrival of 
 a lamp or candle. The light evidently in this case afforded a due superiority of 
 liveliness to external images. Another patient used to tell me that if her rest had 
 been disturbed by a nervous headache, with which she was frequently troubled, 
 as soon as the light of morning stole into her chamber, the figure of a soldier 
 would approach the end of the bed, and remain there till the light became 
 stronger, or till she fell asleep : it gave her no alarm after having been assured of 
 its nature.
 
 246 APPAEITIONS. 
 
 There are few who have not occasionally detected themselves idling 
 away a minute or two in tracing faces or figures along the fringe and 
 drapery of curtains, or in the shadows thrown upon the walls of a 
 room lighted only by an expiring fire, or, perhaps, shaping likenesses 
 among the embers themselves. Cowper confesses himself to have been 
 frequently thus employed. Task, b. iv. 
 
 " Me oft has fancy ludicrous and wild 
 Sooth'd with a waking dream of houses, towers, 
 Trees, churches, and strange visages, express'd 
 In the red cinders, while with poring eye 
 I gaz'd, myself creating what I saw." 
 
 The facility with which our imagination works upon all these objects 
 depends on the same principle, namely, that the outward images are 
 not strong enough to afford a decided contrast with the shapes evoked 
 by the imagination or memory. It certainly appears to me a striking 
 circumstance that of the various ghost tales which I have either heard 
 or read of, I remember few in which the appearance was related to 
 have occurred in complete darkness. At first sight it might be expected 
 that if apparitions are frequent in twilight, they should be still more 
 so in darkness, because the mental conceptions must possess a still 
 more complete dominion. On consideration, however, it would occur, 
 that in darkness, unless the idea be preternaturally vivified, the mind 
 at once recognizes it as her own creature, because unmingled with any 
 extraneous species. The spectre in darkness and that in broad daylight 
 both require extraordinary liveliness of the image ; in the former 
 instance to afford an aspect different from that of the other images 
 derived from the same source as itself; and in the latter to give it an 
 equality of vividness with its external associates. 
 
 We have now to consider the agency by which this vivifaction takes 
 place. "We have before had occasion to remark that this dispropor- 
 tionate excitation of the ideas indicates disorder of the mind, however 
 temporary ; it may now be observed, that this, like all other mental 
 derangements, may be traced both to mental and physical causes, and 
 that it is often a matter of extreme difficulty to separate them, that is, 
 to say that in any given case the cause was exclusively either the one 
 or the other. This depends on our imperfect acquaintance with those 
 alterations in the organization of the brain which may be supposed to 
 induce or accompany the disturbed functions. It might be urged that, 
 since a large class of maladies, called nervous, because consisting of
 
 MENTAL DISORDERS MENTAL CONTEMPLATION. 247 
 
 derangements of those functions of the nervous system more particu- 
 larly connected with corporeal states, are in the present stage of science 
 as incapable of reference to known alterations in the nervous substance 
 as any of the mental affections ; the latter, therefore, have no better 
 grounds for being considered disorders of the immaterial principle 
 independently of the body. This conclusion perhaps loses some of its 
 force when we take into consideration, that the bodily functions of the 
 nervous system can be traced to certain parts of that system with far 
 more precision than the separate intellectual operations, unless we are 
 disposed to assent to the theories of Gall and Spurzheim. But however 
 the case may stand in this view, one thing is sufficiently clear to serve 
 our present purpose, viz., that in many cases of mental disease certain 
 moral agents, whether primary or secondary, stand out as the most 
 prominent antecedents. We may, therefore, say that the causes of 
 the morbid symptom, which is the subject of our inquiry, are some- 
 times of a moral, at others of a more physical description, remembering 
 that the activity of the former is often much aggravated by the 
 predispositions afforded by the latter. Let us first take a glance at 
 one or two instances in which this mental perversion seems dependent 
 on circumstances derived from the mind itself. 
 
 Intense and continued mental contemplation of a particular object 
 may be followed by its apparition. 
 
 Sir W. Scott's story of the appearance of a late illustrious poet to 
 his friend was of this description. The latter, after having been 
 engaged in reading for some hours a biography of that distinguished 
 individual with great interest, walked into an adjoining room, lighted 
 feebly by the moonshine, and decorated with suits of armour and 
 fantastic dresses. Among the latter he saw a distinct representation 
 of the poet, but convinced that it was an illusion, he went up to the 
 spot, and the figure vanished. 
 
 In this case the mental image was, without doubt, rendered 
 unusually lively by the previous deep attention, but its effect was 
 heightened by a circumstance already treated of; viz., the dimness of 
 the real visual objects in the imperfect light. To the same cause belong 
 the numerous cases of apparitions told of individuals deeply engaged 
 in thinking of departed or absent friends, and those of religious 
 enthusiasts. The former may be illustrated by the interesting account 
 which Baronius gives of the appearance of Ficinus to Michael 
 Mercato.
 
 248 
 
 " Those illustrious frietfds, after a long discourse on the nature of the soul, had 
 agreed, that whoever of the two should die first, should, if possible, appear to his 
 surviving friend, and inform him of his condition in the other world. A short time 
 afterwards, says Baronius, it happened, that while Michael Mercato the elder was 
 studying philosophy, early in the morning, he suddenly heard the noise of a horse 
 galloping in the street, which stopped at his door, and the voice of his friend Ficinus 
 was heard, exclaiming, ' Michael ! Michael ! those things are true.' Astonished 
 at this address, Mercato rose and looked out of the window, where he saw the back 
 of his friend, dressed iu white, galloping off on a white horse. He called after him, 
 and followed him with his eyes till the appearance vanished. Upon inquiry he 
 learned that Ficinus had died at Florence, at the very time when this vision was pre- 
 sented to Mercato, at a considerable distance." Ferriar, page 100. 
 
 Narratives of the prodigies seen by fanatic visionaries, both, in 
 ancient and modern times, must be familiar to every one ; the majority, 
 no doubt, were false ; but if any were true, they may be explained by 
 long and strained application to certain subjects. Of the same kind 
 are the minion ghost-stories connected with various forms of supersti- 
 tion. Those who wish to collect examples may find an abundant 
 assemblage in Beaumont's "World of Spirits, and in Dr. Hibbert's 
 chapter on Spectres referred to superstitious imagery. But the most 
 decided agents in the excitation of certain ideas, are all the various 
 kinds of perturbation to which the mind is subject, particularly fronj. 
 the operation of the passions or emotions. I am not sure that the 
 intense mental application just spoken of ought not to be included 
 under this head, since it has a tendency, more or less, to destroy for a 
 time the due equilibrium of the mental system. But to perturbation 
 that ensues from the presence of strong emotions, what myriads of 
 supernatural visitations may be assigned! It will be found, however, 
 on examination, that the painful passions have a much greater tendency 
 than the pleasurable to produce this effect ; partly, perhaps, because 
 they appear in other instances, such as in their action on bodily organs, 
 to be endowed with a greater morbific power. It is not often that we 
 hear an authentic account of an individual, under the elating influence 
 of hope, being presented with actual visual embodiments of his airy 
 castles : but there is no limit to the tales of spectral appearances to 
 bereaved and mourning relatives, to the trembling midnight wanderer, 
 to wretches on the brink of ruin, to desolate lovers, and remorse- 
 stricken murderers. In all these cases there is the mind diseased, the 
 order of the thoughts and feelings is broken up, particular ideas have 
 acquired a morbid intensity, and there needs but the impulse of 
 association to introduce at any time a grisly band of ghosts, wraiths,
 
 EMOTION. 249 
 
 spirits, and their proper parapharnalia. It would be a useless waste 
 of time to quote on this occasion from the many* instances on record. 
 
 While on this part of my subject, I cannot avoid quoting the fol- 
 lowing lines from one of Crabbe's Tales of the Hall. 
 
 " Yet more, in some strong passion's troubled reign, 
 Or when the fever'd blood inflames the bi'ain, 
 At once the outward and the inward eye 
 The real object and the fancied spy ; 
 The eye is open, and the sense is true, 
 And therefore they the outward object view ; 
 But while the real sense is tix'd on these, 
 The power within its own creation sees : 
 And these, when mingled in the mind, create 
 Those striking visions which our dreamers state ; 
 For knowing that is true that met the sight, 
 They think the judgment of the fancy right," 
 
 To the vivifying influence of the emotions, we may, I think, trace 
 the phenomenon of the Mirage of the desert. To the parched and 
 fainting pilgrim of the sandy wilderness, no feeling can be more pre- 
 dominant than the desire of drink, and consequently the idea of water 
 is likely to be excited to the liveliness of perception ; perhaps, also, it 
 is probable that he sees the phantom-stream in the horizon, because 
 there the objects of vision are fainter, and more capable of being 
 equalled by an excited conception. The vision of towers and pillars, 
 and minarets, apparently imitated by masses of moving sand, may have 
 the same origin, as the spectator in the uninhabited desert must naturally 
 think with intense interest of far-off cities. Mr. Madden, if I remember 
 rightly, is more disposed to consider the phenomenon a spectrum of 
 the mind than an illusion of the eye. 
 
 It is unnecessary to remark how strongly outward perceptions are 
 capable of suggesting the morbid ideas. The liveliness of the train of 
 ideas excited by a sensible impression, as in the case of the Swiss 
 peasant, when he hears the song of his native valleys in a foreign 
 
 * I may, perhaps, be allowed to mention, that a relation of my own once declared, 
 that at a time of great affliction she was the subject of a spectral illusion. She had 
 lost by death a particular friend, resident in a distant part of the country, and she 
 was walking near a large common, on the evening of the day on which she knew 
 that the funeral must have taken place. It was then that she had a vivid perception 
 of a funeral train slowly moving across the heath ; and although she had strength of 
 mind enough to be conscious that it was only a delusion, the appearance was so dis- 
 tinct, that she could not help being much affected by it. Dr. Conolly mentions that 
 once, when in great peril in a storm off the Eddystone Lighthouse, he beheld his 
 family circle as distinctly as any of the objects actually around him.
 
 250 APPAKITIONS. 
 
 land, has been attributed by Mr. Stewart to the continued presence 
 and action of the suggesting cause, which is not the case when merely 
 a transient idea calls up its associated ideas, and then takes its leave. 
 Dr. Brown coincides in this explanation, but thinks that we must also 
 take into consideration the conviction of reality which is induced by 
 the perception, and by it diffused as it were over the images of the mind 
 connected with it. With reference to spectral illusions, every one is 
 familiar with the auxiliary influence afforded by particular objects* of 
 sight or sound, such as old ruins, dark glens, churchyards, wild forests, 
 midnight bells, and hollow-sounding winds, &c. 
 
 We are often puzzled, however, when tracing the order of pheno- 
 mena in these anomalous affections, by the want of a link in the chain 
 of associations. The vision often appears to have started up, as it 
 were, isolated from all previous thoughts, and on this account assumes 
 a more supernatural character. Nicolai mentions that he was generally 
 unable to discover any connection between the spectres and the ideas 
 that had prevailed in his mind, before their appearance. 
 
 But many circumstances besides Apparitions resist our efforts at 
 explanation in this respect. Thus we cannot pronounce why a person 
 in delirium should remember and speak a languagef learned in child- 
 hood, but forgotten for many years ; we can merely conjecture, that 
 some particular part of the organ of thought is the seat of the morbid 
 excitement. Such cases as these have occurred more than once. 
 
 We may, perhaps, remark, en passant, that, without impeaching the 
 extent of the gentleman's memory, or the variety of his quotations, it 
 is probable that they were repeated more than once. Still it is not 
 likely that she herself could have recognized them, when reiterated ; 
 
 * Sir Walter tells a good story of a young man of fortune, who had been troubled 
 while in town with the frequent presence of a set of dancing apparitions, and who 
 was relieved of their company by removing into the country, until some articles of 
 furniture that had been sent down from his London drawing-room brought iu their 
 train his old persecutors. 
 
 + One still more remarkable may be remembered by some of our readers. It is 
 that of an ignorant female, who, during a paroxysm of delirium, was heard to recite 
 sentences from Greek and Latin authors. This symptom, as may be supposed, was 
 not a little puzzling to the sagacity of her attendants ; but after a strict inquiry 
 during the progress of her recovery into her former history, it was discovered that 
 some years before she had been servant to a learned gentleman, who was in the 
 habit of amusing himself by rehearsing in loud tones various passages from his 
 favourite authors in the dead languages. These often fell upon the girl's ears while 
 she was busy in her menial avocations, and it may be imagined could be but little 
 heeded.
 
 TRANSITION TO CORPOREAL CAUSES. 251 
 
 her own impression would only be, that they were of the same out- 
 landish sound. No remembrance of particular words, had before 
 involuntarily occurred to her, nor had she attempted to recall them by 
 an effort of the will. But if we turn our attention from these extraor- 
 dinary instances to investigate our most common trains of thought, 
 we shall often be stopped by a similar hiatus. The truth is, perhaps, 
 that there are many feelings either not sufficiently strong to awaken 
 consciousness at the time, or in so slight a degree, that they cannot be 
 recalled, and yet have the power of suggesting other ideas of a more 
 impressive nature. In many cases we cannot account for a series of 
 thoughts in which we have found ourselves involved, until by resuming 
 as much as possible the same circumstances as before, we chance to 
 discover the suggestive agent, or if the cause no longer exists, another 
 person, whose attention was more alive to what was passing around, 
 may intimate an occurrence which gave the impulse to the train. Thus 
 we may suppose, that a senator, while gazing on a romantic valley, 
 finds himself, after a time, engaged in the heat of a debate in Parlia- 
 ment. He is surprised at finding his thoughts thus employed, when 
 but a few minutes before he was enjoying the beauty of the scenery, 
 or fancying the occupations of pastoral life, or perhaps speculating on 
 the geological formations of the surface which his sight traverses ; he 
 cannot remember the connection, but on applying to a friend who may 
 be with him, is perhaps told that the latter only recollects having 
 accidentally coughed, and which circumstance he will at once, though 
 somewhat painfully, recognise as the medium of association. The 
 same thing frequently happens in reading ; the mind is engaged in the 
 matter of the treatise, till some time after a new leaf has been turned, 
 it awakes from a set of ideas widely wandering from the subject in 
 hand, and apparently unconnected ; the new page has not been read, 
 and on turning back we remember distinctly having read to the bottom 
 of the page. Unable at present to find the clue to our thoughts, we 
 follow the author, till, coming upon a particular word, we instantly 
 perceive that it was the cause of the diversion of thought; that, in 
 fact, on turning the leaf, and during the momentary interruption of 
 the train of thought occasioned by the action, the word accidentally 
 caught the eye, and suggested the new assemblage of ideas. 
 
 Having thus briefly touched upon some of the moral excitants of 
 those internal feelings which constitute spectral illusions, let us direct
 
 "252 APPAKITIONS. 
 
 our attention for a short time to a few of the corporeal conditions in 
 which they originate. And first it may be observed, that all these 
 affections are traceable directly or indirectly to the nervous system ; 
 from the most extreme excitement of the brain by inflammation or 
 specific irritation, to the various derangements of nervous function. A 
 question naturally occurs here. How should disorder of any part of 
 the nervous system produce that vivifaction of particular ideas in which 
 apparitions consist? The simplest answer, I apprehend, would be, 
 that as we have shewn that those causes which disturb the healthy 
 and well-balanced operations of the mind, may induce extraordinary 
 intensity of certain thoughts and feelings ; and as the brain is admitted 
 to be the organ or instrument of thought, any disordered affection of 
 the latter will be tantamount to a direct disturbance of the former : 
 bearing in mind that this organ may be deranged not only by causes 
 working upon itself, but by any morbid action in that system of which 
 it is the centre. If it were desirable to penetrate further into the 
 subject, it might be said that there is good reason for believing (without 
 running into the debateable minutiae of phrenology,) that certain 
 portions of the brain are devoted to particular purposes in our mental 
 constitution ; thus we might say that those bands of fibres connected 
 with, or expanding from the origins of the nerves of the senses, as of 
 sight and hearing, may be devoted, not only to the perception of these 
 sensations, but to their reproduction and new combination by memory 
 and imagination. Morbid excitement in the organ might be directed 
 to these parts either by their particular susceptibility at the time, or 
 the accidental determination of the morbific agents, and the result 
 would be the production of spectral appearances and accompanying 
 sounds. This is of course, in a great degree, hypothetical, and cannot 
 be proved until facts have taught us to identify, with more precision, 
 certain parts of the cerebral mass with particular functions. Such a 
 view, it is evident, keeps quite clear of the errors of materialism ; for 
 it will occur to every reflecting mind, that although certain relations 
 between developments of mind on the one hand, and conditions of the 
 cerebral structure on the other, may dispose us to the conviction that 
 it has been the will of the Creator that in our present state of being 
 the immaterial principle should exercise its various energies, at least in 
 union with, if not through the medium of organic phenomena ; yet it 
 by no means follows that we thereby involve ourselves in the belief that
 
 NEKVOUS IRRITABILITY. 25$ 
 
 this inscrutable principle cannot, at a future time, and with different 
 connections, exert its self-contained powers singly and independently, 
 though the body may have yielded to decomposition, in common with 
 other parts of the physical world. 
 
 I may here just mention that the organs, according to the phreno- 
 logical arrangement which are said by their excitement to produce 
 apparitions, are Form, Colour, and Wonder. Some of the zealous 
 supporters of the system affirm that they have met with cases strongly 
 confirmatory of the theoretical anticipations on this point. Those who 
 are curious on the subject may find several cases of the kind scattered 
 through the numbers of the Phrenological Journal. 
 
 Having premised these general observations, we proceed to select 
 for individual consideration a few of the morbid afflictions of the body 
 on which spectral illusions depend. 
 
 "We shall first take notice of what is commonly called nervous 
 irritability, and which is only a term indicative of a condition of the 
 nervous system, so extremely sensitive as to be susceptible of the 
 slightest impression, and consequently very liable to derangement. It 
 may either be natural to the constitution, or, on the other hand, have 
 been induced by diseases and other accidental circumstances. Volumes 
 might be written on the symptoms of this diathesis ; but every one 
 has met with persons suffering from the many and too often unpitied 
 sensations called nervous. They are known to be the lot both of the 
 wretch worn out with care and of the pampered child of fortune ; both 
 of the nightly student, and of the luxurious idler ; but above all, of 
 hysterical females.* 
 
 None of the senses are exempt from the excitement attendant on 
 nervous irritability. All kinds of imaginary soundsf are heard, from 
 the ringing of bells to the distinct intonations of the human voice. 
 
 * Burton, in his infinitely amusing Anatomy of Melancholy, says of the latter, in 
 his chapter on maids', nuns', and widows' melancholy, "they will complain, grudge, 
 lament, and not be persuaded but that they are troubled with an evil spirit which is 
 frequent in Germany (saith Eodoricus) amongst the common sort, aud to such as are 
 more grievously affected. Some think that they see visions, confer with spirits and. 
 devils, they shall surely be damned, are afraid of some treachery, and the like." 
 
 1 1 knew a lady not long ago who scarcely ever fell asleep without seeming to hear 
 strange voices whispering to her ear, and calling to her to go to them. Beaumont 
 has much to say of the awful sounds of tolling bells, and the voices of spirits mingled 
 with them. Aubrey tells of a ghost that disappeared with a most melodious twang.
 
 254 APPARITIONS. 
 
 The olfactory sense* is not allowed to escape. 
 
 The derangement of sixth sense, or Csensesthesia, as the Germans 
 <;all it, being that of general feeling, are very numerous. Who has 
 not heard of persons feeling too large for their chambers ? of little men 
 being unable to get through Temple Bar, except sideways ? 
 
 " Another thinks himself so little," says Burton, " that he can creep into a 
 onouseholej one fears heaven will fall on his head; a second is a cock; and such a 
 one, Gaianerius says, he saw at Padua, that would clap his hands together and crow. 
 Another thinks he is a nightingale, and therefore sings all the night long ; another, 
 he is all glass, a pitcher, and will, therefore, let no hody come near him, <fec. : sed 
 abunde fabularum audivimus." 
 
 But none are more numerous than the perversions of visual percep- 
 tions, from size magnified, colours altered, and shapes distorted, to all 
 the varieties of Apparitions. There is an interesting narrative in the 
 fourth number of Brewster's Journal, of a lady who was troubled with 
 spectres, and who was the subject of constitutional nervous irritability 
 to a great degree. Her nervous disposition was in fact so extremely 
 sensitive, that she could not hear of a surgical operation having been 
 performed on any individual, such as the amputation of an arm, without 
 suffering acute pain in the same part of her own person. 
 
 This is a valuable fact in illustration of the principle which we 
 have so often referred to, that in particular states of the system a 
 remembered or imagined idea may possess the intensity of an actual 
 sensation. It strikes me that this feeling referred to the arm and the 
 vision of an apparition were precisely analogous, each being produced 
 in the mind, and each referred to its respective appropriate situation : 
 the one to external space, in common with all objects of vision ; the 
 other, to the individual's person, as a modification of bodily feeling. 
 The case is reported by the lady's husband in the following account : 
 
 " On the 30th of the same month, at about four o'clock p.m., Mrs. came 
 
 down stairs into the drawing-room, which she had quitted a few minutes before, and 
 
 * Burton relates that "A melancholy French poet, in Laurentius, being sick of a 
 fever, and troubled with waking, by his physicians was appointed to use unguentum 
 populeum to anoint his temples ; but he so distasted the smell of it, that for many 
 years after, all that came near him he imagined to scent of it, and would let no man 
 walk with him, but aloof off, nor wear any new clothes, because he thought still they 
 melled of it; in all other things, wise and discreet, he would talk sensibly, save only 
 in this."
 
 HYPOCHONDRIASIS. 255 
 
 on entering the room, saw me, as she supposed, standing with my back to the fire. 
 She addressed me, asking how it was I had returned so soon. (I had left the house 
 for a walk half an hour before.) She said I looked fixedly at her with a serious and 
 thoughtful expression of countenance, but did not speak. She supposed I was 
 busied in thought, and sat down in an arm-chair near the fire, and within a couple 
 of feet at most of the figure she still saw standing before her. As, however, the 
 eyes still continued to be fixed upon her, after a few minutes she said, ' Why don't 
 
 .you speak, ?' The figure, upon this, moved off towards the window at the further 
 
 end of the room, the eyes still gazing on her, and passed so very close to her in doing 
 so, that she was struck by the circumstance of hearing no steps nor sound, nor 
 feeling her clothes brushed against, nor even any agitation in the air. The figure 
 then retreated to the window, and disappeared." 
 
 This lady on a previous occasion had fancied that she heard her husband's voice 
 quite distinctly when he was absent from home. He proceeds to remark : " Both 
 the stories were so very much en regie as ghost stories, the three calls of the 
 plaintive voice, each one louder than the preceding, the fixed eyes and mournful 
 expression of the phantom, its noiseless step and spirit-like vanishing, were all so 
 characteristic of the Wraith, that I might have been unable to shake off some dis- 
 agreeable fancies, such as a mind once deeply saturated with the poison of nursery- 
 tales cannot altogether banish, had it not been for a third apparition, at whose visit 
 I myself assisted a few days afterwards, and which I think is the key-stone of the 
 case, rendering it as complete as could be wished." This third apparition was the 
 spectre of a cat. 
 
 Hypochondriasis or Melancholia, a malady of the nervous system, 
 though often complicated with disease in other organs, is a prolific 
 source of spiritual creations. Burton's delightful book teems with 
 cases of the kind so richly that selection is a no small difficulty. In 
 one place, speaking of the " adust humour of Melancholy," he says, 
 
 " If it be extreme, they think they hear hideous noises, see and talk with black 
 men, and converse familiarly with devils, and such strange chimasras and visions ; or 
 that they are possessed by them, that somebody talks to them or within them. 
 Tales melancholici plerumque daemoniaci. Gentilis Fulgosus writes that he had a 
 melancholy friend that had a black man in the likeness of a soldier still following 
 him wheresoever he was. Laurentius hath many stories of such as have thought 
 themselves bewitched by their enemies, and some that would eat no meat, as being 
 dead. Anno 1550, an advocate of Paris fell into such a melancholy fit, that he 
 believed verily he was dead ; he could not be persuaded otherwise, or to eat or to 
 drink, till a kinsman of his, a scholar of Bourges, did eat before him dressed like 
 & corse." 
 
 Under the head of Windy Melancholy he says, " Dead men's bones, hobgoblins, 
 ghosts, are ever in their minds, and meet them still in every turn ; all the bugbears 
 of the night, and terrors and fairybabes of tombs and graves are before their eyes, 
 and in their thoughts, as to women and children, if they be left alone."
 
 256 APPAEITIONS. 
 
 That species of nervous derangement* which is so frequently 
 allotted to men of immoderately studious habits, occasionally gives 
 rise to spectres. 
 
 Indigestion, through its influence on the same system, is likewise 
 not unfrequently the origin of ghostly visitations. Every one must be 
 familiar more or less with the effects of a disordered or oppressed 
 stomachf on the imagination in dreams. 
 
 Maniacs have afforded to various observers sufficient testimony that 
 ghost-seeing is not the most uncommon feature of their horrible 
 malady. The patient is often discovered making gestures of recog- 
 nition to persons whom he imagines present, and holding discourse 
 with them of a friendly or hostile nature. Horace describes a delusion 
 
 of this kind : 
 
 " Fuit baud ignobilis Argis, 
 
 Qui se credebat miros audire tragsedos, 
 
 In vacuo Isetus sessor plausorque theatro ; 
 
 Csetera qui vitse servaret omnia recto 
 
 More." 
 
 Sir H. Halford quotes this passage in one of his Essays, and informs 
 us that he once saw a person of exalted rank under these very circum- 
 stances of delusion, and heard him call upon Mr. Garrick to exert 
 himself in the performance of Hamlet. But it is in that form of the 
 
 * Sir Walter Scott's melancholy story of a gentleman high in the law who was 
 constantly persecuted by the presence of a skeleton, may perhaps come under this 
 head. In a recent number of the Phrenological Journal there is recorded the case 
 of a young man who, after having been accustomed to active out-of-door pursuits, 
 suddenly confined himself to severe study, in the arrangement of specimens of natural 
 history, and was soon troubled with a variety of spectral figures. 
 
 + Mrs. RadclifFe was so well aware of them, that she is reported to have purposely 
 drawn inspiration from an indigestible supper, when about to portray certaiii 
 horrific scenes in her blood-curdling romances ; while, on the other hand, it is said 
 that Dryden had recourse to raw meat for the suggestion of splendid imagery. 
 
 A few years ago a friend of mine, who often suffered from dyspeptic symptoms, 
 mentioned to me that one night awakening suddenly, he saw standing by his bedside 
 two figures, the one an elderly gentleman, whose appearance and dress be described 
 minutely, the other a young man and an intimate acquaintance. To convince 
 himself that he was not dreaming, he turned in bed, and then resumed bis former 
 position ; the figures were still there : again he tried the experiment, and with the 
 same result. He then lay a considerable time in a state of great agitation, with his 
 eyes averted from the spot, till he fell asleep. In the morning he was so convinced 
 that he had been in the company of disembodied spirits, that he lost no time in 
 sending his servant to inquire for his friend, who happened to belong to the same 
 college. It was no small relief to him to hear that the latter was in the enjoyment 
 of usual health and spirits. On questioning my friend, I found that he had formed 
 one of a supper-party the evening before, and although he had not indulged in strong 
 potations, he had been so rash as to partake heartily of meat, which never failed 
 trhen taken at so late an hour to produce great inconvenience.
 
 DELIRIUM TEEMENS FEVER. 257 
 
 disease commonly called Delirium Tremens, and which is the conse- 
 quence of excessive indulgence in ardent spirits, that this symptom is 
 most developed : it is, in fact, almost pathognomonic. It is remarkable, 
 however, that the spectres are for the most part the shapes of animals, 
 often vermin and insects, &c., though human ghosts* may likewise 
 form part of the company. 
 
 The late Dr. Armstrong, in his paper on Delirium Tremens, in the 
 Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal, has related some striking 
 and interesting cases, which I regret I have not room to quote. 
 
 Attach of Fever, which always commence with more or less affection 
 of the nervous functions, are occasionally attended with the symptomf 
 under consideration, even previously to the setting in of the delirium 
 which is so frequent an occurrence in its progress. 
 
 * In a case that was under the care of Dr. Ogle and myself in Oxford, I remember 
 that the patient gave scarcely any other indication of disordered mind. One day, 
 when we were standing by his bedside, he remarked (after having answered very 
 coherently a number of questions as to the general state of his health) that a man 
 was standing by the fireplace with a spade in his hand, and wondered what he was 
 about to do the grate. Dr. O. endeavoured in vain for some time to convince him 
 that it was a deception of sight, and at last when the latter yielded as if from 
 politeness, a sort of smile on his countenance seemed to indicate that in secret he 
 considered his doctor somewhat more under a delusion than himself. 
 
 I remember another but more anomalous case, in which the disease was not quite 
 so fully developed. In this the vivified ideas of sense were only those of hearing 
 and smell. It occurred last winter. The man had, by way of keeping up a long 
 Christmas, been more or less intoxicated for nearly a fortnight, and it was not sur- 
 prising that his wits did not escape altogether unimpaired. When I saw him, he 
 spoke very rationally of his bodily symptoms, but made great complaints of sundry 
 plots and machinations that were in progress against his life. On my inquiring by 
 what means he had been informed of them, he assured me that he constantly beard 
 different individuals talking in low tones outside the window, injuring his character, 
 and devising schemes for his destruction, but more especially at night ; and that 
 frequently these people were at the door, and even- behind the curtain ; insomuch 
 that he could not sleep for them, but that they were always too cowardly to face him. 
 The poor fellow also refused for a time to take food or medicine, because he was 
 sure it smelled of mercury ; even his snuff he threw away, because it had been 
 poisoned with the same mineral for which he appeared to entertain so unconquerable 
 a disgust. 
 
 + A gentleman once mentioned to me in conversation the following instance. He 
 visited a friend one evening who had been rather unwell for a day or two before. He 
 found him very irritable and much excited. After a short time the latter started up, 
 declaring he saw a skeleton moving about the room : he advanced towards the sup- 
 posed figure, and then exclaimed that it had passed by him into the adjoining sleeping 
 room, into which he followed it. His friend accompanied him, and asked in what 
 part of the room he saw it : the latter pointed to a chair, on which his friend 
 immediately sat down, in order to dispossess the other of the illusion, but in vain. 
 The excitement had now reached its utmost; for after exclaiming tbat he saw a 
 skeleton on every chair in the room, he fell down insensible, and was confined to his 
 bed for a considerable time with severe fever.
 
 258 APPARITIONS. 
 
 Phrenitis, or actual inflammation of the brain, as might be expected 
 after what has been already related, afflicts the subject of it with 
 similar impressions ; but I have not time to quote from the many 
 examples on record. One of the most remarkable is furnished by 
 Dr. Alderson, in the Edinburgh Medical and Surgical Journal, vol. vi. 
 p. 291. 
 
 Shakspeare, aware of this cause, though differently expressed, 
 makes Macbeth address the visionary dagger thus : 
 
 " Art thou but 
 
 A dagger of the mind ? a false creation 
 Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain t" 
 
 I shall perhaps be excused for stopping a moment to remark that 
 this great expounder of Nature's secrets does not confine himself to 
 any one particular view of these phenomena, as will appear in the two 
 or three following extracts taken almost at random : 
 
 In the first scene of Hamlet we have 
 
 " Horatio says, 'tis but our fantasy ; 
 And will not let belief take hold of him 
 Touching this dreadful sight twice seen of us." 
 
 At the end of the second act Hamlet himself says, 
 
 " The spirit that I have seen 
 May be a devil; and the devil hath power 
 To assume a pleasing shape ; yea, and perhaps 
 Out of my weakness and my melancholy 
 (As he is very potent with such spirits) 
 Abuses me to damn me." 
 
 The Queen tries to persuade Hamlet 
 
 " This is the very coinage of your brain : 
 This bodiless creation ecstasy 
 Is very cunning in." 
 
 Brutus, on first perceiving the ghost of Csesar, endeavours to 
 account for it thus : 
 
 " I think it is the weakness of mine eyes 
 That shapes this monstrous apparition." 
 
 That state of the brain called Plethora Capitts, in other words, con- 
 gestion in its blood-vessels, besides impeding the functions of the 
 organ in other respects, now and then produces the spectral disorder. 
 It appeared to have a great deal to do with the pathology of Nicolai's
 
 PLETHOKA OR ANCEMIA OF THE BRAIN. 259 
 
 case. The following passage describes the relief obtained from blood- 
 letting : 
 
 ' At last it was agreed that leeches should be again applied to me, as formerly, 
 which was actually done, April 20, 1791, at eleven o'clock in the morning. No 
 person was with me besides the surgeon ; but during the operation my chamber was 
 crowded with human phantasms of all descriptions. This continued uninterruptedly 
 till about half an hour after four o'clock, just when my digestion commenced. I then 
 perceived that they began to move more slowly. Soon after, their colour began to 
 fade, and at seven o'clock they were entirely white. But they moved very little, 
 though the forms were as distinct as before, growing however by degrees more 
 obscure, yet not fewer in number, as had generally been the case. The phantoms 
 did not withdraw, nor did they vanish, which previous to that time had frequently 
 happened. They now seemed to dissolve in the air, while fragments of some of 
 them continued visible a considerable time. About eight o'clock the room was 
 entirely cleared of my fantastic visitors." 
 
 Dr. Gregory's case of a gentleman who was knocked off his chair 
 every day by the crutch of a phantom witch soon after dinner, is of 
 this description. The individual had a tendency to apoplexy, and got 
 rid of the witch by the sacrifice of some blood. 
 
 An opposite condition, however, may be the occasion of similar 
 occurrences. I mean when there is a deficiency of the circulating 
 fluid : the organ in this latter case, instead of being oppressed by the 
 excess of the stimulus, fails to perform its functions rightly for want 
 of a sufficiency of it. It is not at all uncommon for persons who have 
 lost large quantities of blood by accidents or for the removal of 
 inflammations, to be distressed with the presence of all kinds of odd 
 faces and figures. 
 
 Many other specimens of bodily disorder might be mentioned as 
 associated with the complaint under discussion. Persons who have 
 been deprived of their rest many nights in succession are liable to it. 
 
 " Qui multum jejunant, aut uoctes ducunt insomnes," saith Burton : " they that 
 much fast or want sleep, as melancholy or sick men commonly do, see visions ; or 
 such as are weak-sighted, very timorous by nature, mad, distracted, or earnestly 
 sick." 
 
 In short, this symptom may appear in any disorder which disturbs 
 the nervous system ; or it may even appear alone, just as an anomalous 
 spasm, or convulsion, or tremor, or disordered sensation may occur 
 without any other indication of disease. Certain poisons of the 
 Narcotic class sometimes induce the symptom. Hyoscyamus and 
 belladonna in particular have been said to have this effect. That
 
 260 APPARITIONS. 
 
 Opium has a similar tendency must be strongly impressed upon all 
 who remember the powerfully described visions in Mr. de Quincy's 
 Confessions of an Opium Eater. The animal poison that causes 
 Hydrophobia is said to have induced, besides the other awful excite- 
 ments of the nervous system, this additional horror the phantom of 
 the rabid dog ! 
 
 Lastly, we may notice that spectral impressions not unfrequently 
 in the last stage of any disorder accompany those symptoms which are 
 the precursors of death. Sometimes the moribund patient is only 
 observed to dart his hands before him, as if endeavouring to grasp at 
 shadows that float in the air ; at other times his eyes are fixed on 
 vacancy, while he is heard to mutter feebly as if in conversation with 
 the imaginary objects. 
 
 " Talking all idly unto shapes of air." 
 
 Some fancy their absent friends, or people whom they knew in by-gone 
 days, are come to bid them farewell, while others again believe that 
 the spirits of the departed are gathered round to welcome their 
 approach to another world. Some, not by nature eloquent, have 
 described in glowing language the scenery of Elysian meadows and 
 shady dells, through which they imagine their delighted spirits to be 
 already wandering ; and it will be remembered that Dame Quickly, in 
 her exquisite picture of poor FalstafF in articulo, says, 
 
 " For after I saw him fumble with the sheets, and play with flowers, and smile 
 upon his fingers' ends, I knew that there was hut one way ; for his nose was as sharp 
 as a pen, an 'a babbled of green fields." 
 
 In some cases the excitement of the imagination rises to such a 
 height, that the eyes of the dying man are lighted with a strange 
 brilliancy, and his whole countenance expresses ecstatic rapture, while 
 heaven and its glories seem bursting upon him. Queen Katherine, in 
 her last hours, is made to exclaim : 
 
 " Saw ye not, even now, a hlessed troop 
 Invite me to a banquet; whose bright faces 
 Cast thousand beams upon me like the sun ? 
 They promised me eternal happiness ; 
 And brought me garlands, Griffiths, which I feel 
 I am not worthy yet to wear." 
 
 Sometimes the case is fearfully reversed, and the individual is seen 
 convulsed, shuddering and shrinking from the fancied presence of all
 
 COINCIDENCES. 261 
 
 hell and its demons. In all these cases it is evident that the ideas 
 which attain such an unnatural degree of intensity, may take their 
 colour more or less from the circumstances and trains of thought to 
 which the mind of the individual had been before habituated. 
 
 I should not have completed my task were I to conclude without 
 noticing a description of stories, which are frequent, well-authenticated, 
 and calculated to impress the belief in favour of the reality of 
 Apparitions. I allude to those cases in which a remarkable event 
 -occurs exactly corresponding either with the supposed supernatural 
 appearance, or with the revelation communicated by the vision. It 
 has often been urged that these verifications of ghosts by warnings are 
 far too numerous to be explained away on the ground of mere coin- 
 cidence in time and place, and that whether the ghost was a bond fide 
 ghost or not, it must have taken its origin from something more than 
 accidental occurrence in the mind of the spectator, since it was followed 
 by an event which exactly tallied with the spectre's communication 
 and which could not have been anticipated by human foresight. Thus 
 it is said that the thousands of instances that have occurred of the 
 sudden appearance and departure of an individual known to be 
 separated by wide distances of sea and land, and an hour, nay, a 
 moment afterwards found to agree exactly with the time at which that 
 individual expired, the appearance being made to those most interested 
 in the event, cannot be satisfactorily interpreted as fortuitous. It was 
 on facts of this kind that Dr. Johnson partly rested his well-known 
 opinions in reference to, this subject. 
 
 It is difficult to attempt to come to any positive conclusion on the 
 point, from the unwillingness that we entertain, on the one hand, to 
 set aside such remarkable facts, and on the other, to admit too easily 
 the frequent interference of supernatural agency. The following, 
 however, appear to my humble conception to be the safest con- 
 clusions : 1st. That no Apparitions whatever have any existence 
 exterior to the minds of the individuals who see them, being merely 
 ideas in an unnatural degree of excitement. 2ndly. That by far the 
 greatest proportion of spectral appearances originate in certain acci- 
 dental states of the mind or body of the person visited ; but, 3rdly, 
 that it is possible that in a very limited number of cases the Deity may 
 be supposed to have been the primary agent by condescending for 
 some particular purpose to vivify the idea in question. With this 
 view we are saved from allowing that miraculous interposition takes
 
 262 APPARITIONS. 
 
 place on these occasions. To say the least, it is easy to conceive 
 that the Deity may, by the fiat of his will, produce that change in the 
 relative intensity of a man's mental impressions which at another time 
 some comparatively trifling occurrence in the mental or corporeal 
 system might have power to effect ; but no phenomenon displayed in 
 the human mind, however striking or uncommon, could strictly be 
 designated a miracle, since the term implies a deviation from fixed and 
 well-ascertained laws, such in fact as we are at present unacquainted 
 with in the moral world. But though supernatural interposition is 
 easily conceivable, the admission of it in particular instances requires 
 the utmost caution. To convince ourselves of the danger of this 
 subject, we have only to turn to the example of Lord Herbert of 
 Cherbury, who persuaded himself that he had received a supernatural 
 intimation that a work which he had just finished, and which attacked 
 the principles of Eevealed Religion, was pleasing in the sight of the 
 Almighty. One of the most touching stories of the class which I 
 have just alluded to is the following. It is contained in Beaumont's 
 World of Spirits : 
 
 " Sir Charles Lee, by his first lady, had only one daughter, of which she died in 
 child-birth ; and when she was dead, her sister, the Lady Everard, desired to have 
 the education of the child, and she was by her very well educated till she was 
 marriageable ; and a match was concluded for her with Sir William Perkins, but 
 was then prevented in an extraordinary manner. Upon a Thursday night, she, 
 thinking she saw a light in her chamber after she was in bed, knocked for her maid, 
 who presently came to her, and she asked ' why she left a candle burning in her 
 chamber?' The maid said she 'left none, and there was none but what she 
 had brought with her at that time ;' then she said it was the fire, but that her maid 
 told her was quite out, and said she believed it was only a dream ; whereupon she 
 said it might be so, and composed herself again to sleep. But about two of the 
 clock she was awakened again, and saw the apparition of a little woman between her 
 curtain and her pillow, who told her she was her mother, that she was happy, and 
 that by twelve o'clock that day she would be with her. Whereupon she knocked 
 again for her maid, called for her clothes, and when she was dressed, went into her 
 closet, and came not out again till nine ; and then brought out with her a letter 
 sealed to her father, brought it to her aunt the Lady Everard, told her what had 
 happened, and declared that as soon as she was dead it might be sent to him. The 
 Lady thought she was suddenly fallen mad, and therefore sent presently away to> 
 Chelmsford for a physician and surgeon, who both came immediately ; but the phy- 
 sician could discern no indication of what the Lady imagined, or of any indisposition 
 of "her body; notwithstanding, the Lady would needs have her let blood, which was- 
 done accordingly. And when the young woman had patiently let them do what they 
 would with her, she desired that the chaplain might be called to read prayers; an* 
 when prayers were ended, she took her guitar and psalm-book, and sat down upon &
 
 PERMANENCY OF BELIEF IN SPIRITS. 263 
 
 chair without arms, and played and sung so melodiously and admirably, that her 
 music master, who was then there, admired at it. And near the stroke of twelve, 
 she rose and sate herself down in a great chair with arms ; and presently, fetching a 
 strong breathing or two, immediately expired, and was so suddenly cold as was much 
 wondered at by the physician and surgeon. She died at Waltham in Essex, three 
 miles from Chelmsford; and the letter was sent to Sir Charles at his house in 
 Warwickshire ; but he was so afflicted at the death of his daughter, that he came not 
 until she was buried ; but when he came, he caused her to be taken up, and to be 
 buried with her mother at Edmonton, as she desired in her letter." 
 
 I shall offer no other comment on the narrative than this : If a 
 supernatural intimation was really intended to be given through the 
 medium of the strong mental excitement, the fated lady certainly 
 assisted the fulfilment of the warning "by the effect which such power- 
 ful presentiments in other cases effect on the bodily system ; but if it 
 was only an accidental illusion, we might say, without having recourse 
 to fortuitous coincidence of disorder and death, that cases have 
 occurred in which so powerful an impression on the imagination has 
 been alone sufficient to do the work of a fatal malady. Dr. Hibbert, 
 in remarking on the story, throws out a hint that there was more 
 disease than the doctors of that day had sagacity to discover. Such 
 an impeachment of the practitioners whose assistance was called in, 
 albeit they were of the olden time, appears to me unnecessary. 
 
 It is high time to draw these remarks to a close. Liable as we are 
 to derangements in the due relations of our ideas to each other from 
 the various causes that have been mentioned, there is little probability 
 that spectres will ever be entirely banished from our world. Even if 
 all external exciting causes shall in time be removed ; if the feudal 
 castle and its haunted dungeons, if the old mansion, with its mysterious 
 chambers, its winding staircases, and tapestried galleries, if the 
 mouldering convent and its storied vaults shall be swept utterly away, 
 and not even a legend of them be remembered ; if the wild heath, 
 where the spirits of murdered men were accustomed to wander restless 
 and comfortless, should be so entirely overspread with the abodes of 
 the living as to leave no room for the nightly walks of the dead ; if 
 tradition shall have forgotten to point out the wizard's cave, where 
 unearthly visitants came thick at the call of unhallowed knowledge ; 
 and finally, if churchyards, the more especial domain of phantoms, 
 shall in time give place to pyramids, and cemeteries of modern device, 
 where no footing will be allotted to ghostly steps ; if indeed time shall 
 efface all these outward agents, there will yet be enough in human
 
 264 APPARITIONS. 
 
 minds to give some life and vigour to these visionary creatures, be their 
 local habitation where it may : trifles light as air may overturn the 
 equilibrium of ideas, the passions will ever be ready to perturb and 
 disconcert, and the delicate organization of the nervous system will be 
 as liable to derangements. The most that can be expected from time 
 will be an increase of information among the various classes of man- 
 kind sufficient to enable them to consider and analyse their mental 
 operations, to separate true from false impressions ; in short, to do that 
 which to an uneducated mind is the most difficult of all tasks, namely, 
 to give more credence to the inductions of reason than to the supposed 
 evidence of the senses. Whether it be desirable that the belief in 
 Apparitions, as one of the ties that bind the thoughts of men to the 
 invisible world, should be done away with among the mass of man- 
 kind, might perhaps afford matter for debate : it is a question, however, 
 quite foreign to my province, and at all events one that, incompetent 
 as I feel to enter upon it, I leave to better judges.
 
 ON THE RELATIONS BETWEEN 
 
 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 f^USCLES* and their contractions nave commonly been divided 
 into voluntary and involuntary ; a distinction which, involves 
 many anomalies, and may lead, and indeed has led to consider- 
 able confusion. The muscles which are employed in the mere 
 organic functions, have been placed in the latter class, while those 
 which subserve locomotion have been grouped in the former. But it 
 is well known that certain motions which are for the most part inde- 
 pendent of the will, have in some instances been subjected to its 
 control, and on the other hand, that in a great number of those which 
 are designated voluntary, volition has very little concern, and that 
 every one of them might, under certain conditions of the system, be 
 brought into play in direct opposition to that principle ; so that the 
 most that can be said for this classification is, that it is based on the 
 general fact, that the one group act nearly always without any stimulus 
 from the will, while the others own this faculty, if faculty it be, as a 
 very frequent instigator to action. 
 
 An arrangement less subject to exception, and adopted by many 
 physiologists, is that which distributes muscular motions into those 
 which maintain the nutritive or vegetative life of the system, and those 
 which enable it to entertain relations with surrounding objects. On 
 the latter, principally, it is my intention to offer the following remarks, 
 in which I shall restrict myself to the consideration of the connection 
 between the movements in question, and certain mental phenomena. 
 
 * Read before the Philosophical and Literary Society of Bristol, December, 1834, 
 and reprinted from the West of England Journal. Ed.
 
 266 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 The first inquiry that presents itself is, what is voluntary motion ? 
 If we apply to etymology, we shall only make out that it is motion 
 related with desire, wish, inclination, preference, &c. But as the word 
 voluntary has acquired a signification of more import than its root, we 
 must not content ourselves with its derivation. When a person has 
 desired an object, and gained possession of it by means of certain 
 muscular contractions, he is said to have executed a voluntary move- 
 ment. But what was the process ? Let us suppose that the object was 
 a book upon the table before him. After questioning his consciousness, 
 he can enumerate no other events than the wish to take up the book, 
 the belief that the action will ensue, and the movements of his hand 
 and arm, which accomplished his wish and confirmed his expectation. 
 This, however, may be considered so customary and mechanical an 
 action, as scarcely to present a fair example for educing the operation 
 of volition. Let us choose then a movement entirely new to th& 
 individual. He wishes to pass a sword between two powerful magnets, 
 which are in rather close proximity to each other; he executes this 
 difficult manoeuvre ; and we ask, what have been the events in the 
 process ? He wished to hold the instrument fast, and his hand grasped 
 the hilt ; he wished to move it forward, and his arm was projected ; h& 
 wished to move it in a line midway between the magnets, knowing 
 that in that direction their mutual antagonism would assist him in 
 overcoming the attraction of either one ; he felt on a deviation from 
 this line a strong attraction, and he wished to move the weapon in an 
 opposite direction, but not so far as to encounter a similar difficulty 
 on the opposite side. His wishes were accomplished ; and he can 
 give no additional information, if he merely scrutinizes his own con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 But this instance again may be objected to, on the ground that 
 although the general resultant action is new, yet the elementary 
 movements are so familiar, as not to have required the occurrence of 
 volition. To select then an example entirely free from any exception 
 of this kind ; let us suppose that the individual wishes to bend his 
 arm ; the flexion is effected ; and again we enquire, what were the 
 events in the process ? It cannot now be said that the action was not 
 attended to, in consequence of the mind being occupied with the 
 ulterior object. The motion of the limb was desired, and the motion 
 took place ; this is all that can be learned from the agent. But it is 
 the opinion of many philosophers that there was an intermediate event,
 
 TO WILL AND TO WISH. 26T 
 
 to wit, volition. They hold that to will and to wish, imply separate 
 states of mind ; and they describe volition as a mental attempt anterior 
 to muscular motion, and subsequent to, and determined by, desire. In 
 other words, the agent first wishes, then wills, and then acts. By what 
 arguments is this view supported ? 
 
 In the judgment of some persons, it may perhaps derive no little 
 force from the notion, that the will is something active and spontaneous, 
 while desire is altogether passive, and must consequently be a separate 
 mental condition. Now the idea of activity is said to have two sources ; 
 the one consisting in our observation of certain bodies which move 
 without apparently being operated upon by other bodies ; the other 
 consisting in the fact that we are unconscious of any external event 
 that stands in the relation of cause to our own movements, or in other 
 words, in our belief that these movements are self-impelled. In each 
 of these cases, the notion of activity results from the non-appearance 
 of any prior event ; in each we take a limited series of events, the first 
 of which is viewed with reference to those only that follow, and not to 
 any preceding series. But surely the same notion of activity arises in 
 minds, whenever we view any limited set of phenomena whatever ; 
 (for with our imperfect faculties we are unable to survey the whole 
 series up to the great First Cause.) Each detached series has, by 
 virtue of its detached circumstances, an initial event, which is active 
 with relation to all the events that follow it. Thus we say that an acid 
 acts on a metal ; the acid is viewed only in its relation of antecedence, 
 and has active character ; but how came the acid in contact with the 
 metal ? It is now considered with reference to a series of phenomena 
 that have gone before, and immediately assumes a passive aspect. 
 The same holds good with every event that we know of ; it is active as 
 an antecedent, passive as a consequent. It is easy then to understand 
 why desire is generally considered as a passive emotion ; it is because 
 this feeling is contemplated in a series of events of which it is the 
 conclusion; the series being, the presentation of the object, the 
 perception of the object, and the desire of the object. Volition, on 
 the contrary, obtains its active character from being viewed in relation 
 to certain movements which succeed it. But is it not possible to make 
 these two conditions (supposing them not to be identical) exchange 
 characters ? Unquestionably ; and simply by considering them in 
 relation to each other ; for desire has then the priority of occurrence, 
 and consequently is active, while volition is necessarily passive.
 
 268 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 There does not appear then sufficient reason for denying the identity 
 of volition and desire, on the ground that the one has an active and 
 the other a passive quality. Let us endeavour to try the value of 
 another argument. 
 
 . There must certainly be an operation intermediate to desire and 
 action, it is urged, or to what can be attributed the feeling of effort ? 
 for surely this is something different both from the wish, and from the 
 action which is the object of the wish. This is a proposition which 
 requires a very close scrutiny ; for if there really be a feeling of effort, 
 *ui generis, incapable of resolution into desire of action, the question is 
 at an end ; the feeling is the tertium quid, the very volition whose 
 existence we are discussing. In order that we may better understand 
 in what an effort consists, it will be convenient to take one or two 
 illustrations. A man wishes to snap a piece of cord by which his 
 hands are tied ; we see him separate them suddenly, and the band is 
 broken. In describing the action, and the mental condition which 
 preceded it, we should merely say that the man wished to break the 
 cord, and that he broke it. But if the first motion of the hands is not 
 followed by the rupture, we then say that he made an effort to that 
 effect ; but in what respect do the two cases differ ? The wish was the 
 same, and the muscular motion the same ; in the one case these events 
 were followed by the desired event, in the other they were not. To 
 this it may perhaps be answered, there is in reality an effort, no less 
 in the former than in the latter instance, since it occurs before the 
 muscular action, and consequently is not dependent on the fulfilment 
 or on the non-fulfilment of the ulterior object, and that it is only in 
 common parlance that the use of the word effort is confined to the 
 unsuccessful series of events, it being lost sight of in the other 
 instance, or confounded with the action itself. To avoid then any 
 confusion of this kind, let us view the individual in the act of straining 
 the cord. Had we never seen a person so employed before, and were 
 we ignorant of the effects of tension on such a substance, we should 
 merely say that he was forcibly pulling the cord in opposite directions ; 
 but if we once get into our minds an idea of his ulterior wish, we 
 declare that he is making an effort. Here again the word is used with 
 reference to something which is to be subsequent to the muscular 
 action, not to any thing that has preceded it. 
 
 Let us take another example, and the strongest that can be found 
 in favour of the doctrine of effort and volition. Such an one, I think,
 
 EFFORT AND VOLITION. 269 
 
 will be met with in the case of a person, who having a recently- 
 paralysed limb, is desirous of moving it in the customary manner. It 
 remains motionless ; but the individual is said to make an effort, 
 though a useless one, to exert his volition, though in vain. " Is it to 
 be imagined," says a spectator, " that the mental state of the indi- 
 vidual is nothing more than an emotion of desire, when I witness his 
 earnest look, his compressed lips, his close-set teeth, his distended 
 nostril, his flushed cheek, and his starting eye ?" " Did I experience 
 no other mental affection than a wish?" asks the sufferer himself, 
 when he sinks back on his pillow, exhausted by his futile exertions. 
 To the former it may be replied, that the phenomena which he has 
 enumerated, and considered indicative of a peculiar state of mind, 
 distinct from desire, are the results of instinctive actions which accom- 
 pany the intense desire of any particular movement ; that they nearly 
 all belong to a set of respiratory muscles, which are employed in 
 preventing the egress of air from the chest, a condition essential to all 
 difficult motions ; and that the actions in question may be singly or 
 collectively designated an effort ; but he must bear in mind that in 
 themselves they involve no affection of consciousness. The question 
 of the paralytic himself may be met by the request that he will 
 describe his own feelings ; for in doing this he can enumerate nothing 
 that is not resolvable into the desire of the movement, and the con- 
 sciousness of the occurrence of certain respiratory actions, which he 
 has often experienced prior to, or concomitant with, the desired action, 
 and which he therefore denominates efforts. Or tell him to use these 
 respiratory muscles in a similar manner, but without reference to any 
 ulterior action, and then enquire what he has felt. He will be unable 
 to do more than enumerate the wish that arose, at the suggestion, for 
 those muscular actions, and their consequent occurrence ; for he is 
 precisely in the same predicament, as the individual of a former 
 instance, who desires or wills the flexion of his arm. 
 
 In all these instances, analyse them as carefully as we will, we fail 
 to discover the slightest evidence of any separate mental condition, 
 corresponding to what is designated an effort. However real and 
 palpable the notion may at first sight appear, when pursued it is found 
 to be a phantom, and there is nothing to grasp but the desire and the 
 movement between which the fugitive shape had hovered. 
 
 An examination of the word effort, or its synonymes, attempt, endea- 
 vour, &c., in their metaphorical applications will lead to a similar
 
 370 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 result. An effort, whether in the organic or in the inorganic world, 
 will always be found to express the relation of an event to a series of 
 which it is, or lias been formerly experienced to be, initial or antecedent. 
 The chemist having discovered at the bottom of his crucible an amor- 
 phous matter, which he remembers in former experiments to have 
 been the commencement of a number of changes which terminated in 
 the formation of crystals, declares that there has been an attempt at 
 crystallization. The anatomist, when a mal-formed organ is submitted 
 to him, knowing that the animal, to which the organ belongs, traverses 
 in its embryonic development a series of organic forms permanent in 
 the lower tribes, scarce hesitates to say, that nature has made her 
 usual efforts to form a more complex organization, but that they have 
 failed ; or the zoologist, if he be as loose a reasoner as Lamarck, may 
 pronounce all the interior species to be so many attempts at the pro- 
 duction of more perfect ones, like the imperfect crystallizations of the 
 chemist. The pathologist having observed certain phenomena in the 
 course of a fatal disease, may assert that they were the endeavours of 
 nature to effect a cure, because on former occasions he has noticed 
 such events to have been followed by a series of others, which ended 
 in recovery. But not to multiply examples, we may conclude by 
 remarking, that in all of them the word effort is applied to an event or 
 to events which bear the same relation to other events, as the desire of 
 certain actions, to the occurrence of those actions. 
 
 Our inquiry into the nature of activity and effort, having failed to 
 produce any evidence of the separateness of desire and volition, let us 
 examine another kind of proof. 
 
 Mr. Locke observes, that "Desire may have a contrary tendency 
 to that which our will sets us upon." Dr. Reid takes the same 
 position ; and recently it has been maintained with great earnestness 
 by Dr. Chalmers, in his Bridgwater Treatise. From the illustrations 
 adduced by these authors, it appears to be their opinion, that those 
 muscular movements which take place to achieve objects that are dis- 
 agreeable to us, cannot be the products of desire. But in order that 
 we may desire a thing, is it necessary that this should be of an agree- 
 able nature? When two events or actions, each productive of pain, 
 are presented to our consideration, does not that which is less painful 
 immediately become an object of our desire ? Do we we not daily 
 observe that persons eagerly long for the infliction of certain surgical 
 operations, in order that they may avoid the continuance of severer
 
 OTHER OBJECTIONS TO IDENTITY OF DESIRE AND VOLITION. 271 
 
 suffering ? The nauseous draught of medicine, which, according to 
 Dr. Chalmers, is taken by virtue of an act of volition in opposition to 
 desire, appears to us to be itself an object of desire, because viewed as 
 the means of preventing or removing indisposition. The cases brought 
 forward by Dr. Reid, as exemplifications of an opposition between will 
 and desire, have been fully analysed by Dr. Brown, in his Treatise on 
 Cause and Effect, and proved to shew nothing but the opposition of 
 one desire to another, and the determination of the action by the pre- 
 dominating desire. The work just mentioned renders it needless for 
 us to dwell longer upon the argument in question, and we shall there- 
 fore content ourselves with a remark upon the common phrase, " to act 
 against the will." Will is here employed in the sense of desire ; this 
 must be allowed by even the most sturdy asserters of the separateness 
 of will and desire. But as the act implies a volition, or effort of the 
 will proper, they must say that an individual may will an act against 
 his will. To our apprehension it would be equally correct to say, that 
 he desires an act against his desire ; in other words, that one desire is 
 opposed to, and predominant over the other. When, therefore, we 
 talk of acting against the will, we omit the mention of the desire 
 which determined the volition, and only intimate the opposition of the 
 action itself to the first of the two desires. The following example 
 will perhaps exhibit this point in its true light. A school-boy is 
 aroused from his slumbers, and his happy dreams of hounds and 
 horses, by the dissonant clang of the matin bell. The first desire that 
 arises in his mind is to renew his repose, and the pursuit of his pleas- 
 ing illusions ; a second emotion arises in the form of a desire to avoid 
 some discipline, or to obtain a prize for diligence and punctuality. If 
 the first be the stronger, he sinks back upon his pillow ; if the latter, 
 he leaves his bed, and he says, " against his will," in which phrase he 
 specifies the vanquished desire, and leaves the other to be inferred 
 from the action which it has determined. The continuance or return 
 of the resisted motion does not argue against this view ; it is still a 
 weaker emotion, notwithstanding the subject of it may say that he 
 would have much preferred remaining in bed; for by this he only 
 means, that continuing in bed would have been more agreeable than 
 his present condition, while he neglects to mention the ulterior object, 
 the contemplation of which was the cause of his being where he is. 
 
 Another objection to the identity of desire and volition, is founded 
 upon the assertion that the latter is conversant with our own acts only,
 
 272 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 while the objects of the former are external to us. But this we 
 consider to he weaker ground than even either of the former positions. 
 It is true that as the words are used, we may desire the actions of" a 
 foreign body, but can only will our own ; and if we set out with the 
 assumption that volition and desire are different faculties, this would 
 appear a very natural character of distinction. But the nature of the 
 object does not alter the mental condition. Whether a red rose or a 
 white rose be presented to the eye, the mental state is still a vision * 
 and in like manner, whether a person wishes a cloud to pass before 
 the sun, or the motion of one of his limbs, the mental state is in either 
 case, desire. But if this be true, how is it, some one may ask, that we 
 give this particular instance of desire a specific designation, viz. will 
 or volition, while all the other species possess only their generic name ? 
 We apprehend the reason to be simply this ; that in the former 
 instance, the desire tears the relation of cause to the subsequent action, u-Jnle 
 in the latter there is no such relation. The muscular movement takes 
 place, because it was desired ; our experience of the invariable sequence 
 of these two events, induces us to describe them as cause and effect ; 
 but the passage of the cloud over the sun, if it chanced to follow our 
 desire, we know full well was not the effect of the latter, because our 
 experience has often recognized the occurrence of these events without 
 a similar chain of sequence. 
 
 Let us glance at one more objection contained in such a question as 
 the following : " How are we to explain the case of a person who 
 desires to move his limb, but being convinced of the impossibility of 
 the action, does not choose to exert his volition ?" In this query there 
 is in the first place an assumption than a person can desire what he 
 believes to be impossible ; and secondly, it is overlooked that the 
 desire of the movement must necessarily induce, as we have shewn 
 above, those initial or preparatory actions which constitute an attempt, 
 or volitional exertion. Can we entertain a desire, though believing in 
 the impossibility of gratifying? Certainly not. To desire an object, 
 and to feel that it would be very agreeable, if possessed, are two very 
 different states of mind. " I should like so and so," has a very 
 different signification from " I wish or desire so and so." The former 
 expression might be used by a sensible person with reference to any 
 thing physically impossible, such as a visit to the Dog-star ; but the 
 latter applied to the same object would indicate unsoundness of mind. 
 The difficulty in relinquishing what is called a useless desire, depends
 
 VOLITION. 273 
 
 on the difficulty of believing that it is useless. A mind unhinged by 
 the wrench of a dreadful bereavement may long for the return of the 
 dead, but it is because that mind is incapable of considering the 
 circumstances which render the object of its desire impossible. A 
 child both wishes and asks for many impracticable delights, and the 
 most effectual method of stopping such desires is to convince him that 
 they cannot be realized. A culprit may be anxious for the release of 
 his limbs from the stocks, but has no desire to remove them himself, 
 because he believes the action to be impossible ; he consequently 
 makes no efforts at extrication so long as he entertains this belief, 
 which efforts, however, would occur by necessity, if he experienced 
 any desire. To return to the case more immediately before us ; if the 
 paralytic can be convinced that it is possible for him to move his limbs, 
 the corresponding desire immediately arises, and is followed either by 
 the movement in question, or by those respiratory actions which 
 constitute an effort. 
 
 Thus far then in our inquiry we have been unable to discover any 
 event intermediate to the desire, and the occurrence of the muscular 
 movement which is its object. It has been seen, however, that the 
 former stands in the relation of cause to the latter ; which cannot be 
 predicated of it in connection with any other object. Volition then, or 
 will, if we understand it rightly, is an expression of this relation; in 
 other words, to icill, in its strict sense, is to wish a muscular action. 
 It is in its character of cause, that the word will is almost always 
 applied to the desires of the Deity ; because it is obviously impossible 
 to conceive of any condition of the Divine mind, which is not neces- 
 sarily followed by the event which is its object. In like manner, the 
 inclination of a monarch in the affairs of his kingdom, is ui'tpn desig- 
 nated as his will, because the desired effect nearly always follows. So 
 again the wish of an individual with regard to the disposal of his 
 property, being rendered more or less certain of execution l>y the law 
 of the land, is termed his will. When we say that our :i"^;res have 
 been gratified without the intervention of our will, \\v v express 
 circuitously that the occurrence of the desired event \\ : >i the effect 
 of the desire. 
 
 Before quitting this part of the subject, it may !) -d, that 
 
 volition is often supposed to be exercised in choice or i> -e ; but 
 
 we trust there is no need to point out that this is an i; , applica- 
 
 tion of a term which belongs only to muscular action a o.uise in 
 
 T
 
 274 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 the mind ; choice, as we shall see presently, being nothing more than 
 the strongest of two or more desires, and having no necessary connection 
 with action. Intention, resolution, determination, &c., are only forms of . 
 the same mental condition, the choice of some action or line of conduct, 
 that may appear more desirable than some other presented to our 
 contemplation. Is there no difference then between these phrases, 
 l< I wish to study Geology," and " I intend, or have resolved, or have 
 determined, to study Geology ?" Unquestionably. In the former 
 instance I express a wish, but by no means intimate that it exceeds my 
 inclination to stay at home, and attend to pursuits that demand less 
 corporeal exertion. In the latter, I declare that my inclination to the 
 study predominates over any opposing desire.* 
 
 In considering the nature of resolution, we must be careful not to 
 confound it with volition, which so often occurs, though not necessarily, 
 between the resolution and its achievement. Our resolves are executed 
 more or less by muscular actions of some kind or other, whether by 
 speaking, writing, locomotion, &c. Volition we have said is the desire, 
 whose object and result is muscular movement ; but as the latter may 
 have other causes, volition is not necessarily implied in the execution 
 of a desire. Thus I may resolve and announce that I will fetch some- 
 thing from an adjoining room, and may execute my intention and 
 prophecy, without the occurrence of a single volition ; for my muscles 
 may have acted without my consciousness, and consequently without 
 my desire. But this point will be discussed more at large, when we 
 speak of the different motions and their causes. 
 
 The origination of desire is a complicated subject, f but it will serve 
 
 * The auxiliary "I will" intimates both wish and resolution, and in addition, 
 perhaps, a decided expectation of the future event. " I sJiall," expresses little more 
 than a prediction ; at all events it is improperly used if made to express inclination, 
 since shall is derived from a Saxon word, signifying " ought," and therefore implies 
 the operation of some agent prior to the agent spoken of, or in other words is 
 passive. This 'will appear more evident, if we choose another pronoun. If I say, 
 that " he will study Geology," I predict his occupation, and only trace its causation 
 as far back as his own mind. " He shall study" &c., at once declares that the begin- 
 ning of that series of events which ends in his geological occupation, is something 
 external or prior to his own feelings on the matter." 
 
 + It is almost superfluous to observe, that the view which has been taken of voli- 
 tion, as a relation of cause and effect between desire and muscular motion, is in 
 perfect accordance with the free agency of man ; since if we act in consequence of 
 desire, we act as freely as possible, that is, precisely as we like. How we like, and 
 how we desire in all cases, are questions of difficult solution ; but one thing is 
 certain, that motives of the greatest cogency have been provided by our Creator and 
 Moral Governor, both in the dictates of conscience and in the precepts of revelation.
 
 INSTINCT. 275 
 
 our present purpose sufficiently to state, that this emotion may arise in 
 two ways ; first, it may be the immediate consequent of a simple bodily 
 feeling, of an external sensation, or of a conception ; secondly, it may 
 be the result of a comparison of two objects, or a judgment. In the 
 former case it is instinctive ; in the latter, it has been termed choice or 
 preference. Instinct is manifested, not only in the properties which 
 urge the lower animals to some of their most important functions, but 
 also in human appetites, and in those vehement wishes which suddenly 
 start up, particularly in the minds of children, on the perception or 
 remembrance of any pleasing object. No period of existence after 
 birth is too early for the development of this form of desire. Witness 
 the chicken catching at a fly while in the act of breaking from its shell, 
 and the young infant stretching forth its hand towards some glittering 
 object. What may be the nature of those desires which induce the 
 lower animals to place substances in a particular mechanical arrange- 
 ment, as in the construction of a nest, a honey-comb, the winter-quarters 
 of the beaver, or the web of the spider, it is vain to conjecture. 
 
 Choice is more capable of analysis than instinct. The remembrance 
 of former experiences, the resemblances of events, the expectation of 
 like effects from like causes, the balancing of probabilities, all partici- 
 pate in the production of that state of mind in which one of two objects 
 appears more pleasing or less painful. But this kind of desire is by 
 no means confined to the human species. A cat may feel an instinctive 
 longing for a bird in a cage, but remembering that the execution of 
 her desires on a former occasion was accompanied with an injury to her 
 claws, which produced pain in a greater degree than the feast on the 
 victim produced pleasure, remains quiescent. 
 
 The accomplishment of desires, which ever be their class, is effected 
 by muscular motions ; and these are hastily called voluntary, for no 
 other reason than that they are concurrent with or not opposed to 
 desire, without its being duly considered whether they result from 
 intermediate desires, of which they are the sole objects. Out of the 
 infinite number of muscular contractions which we daily and hourly 
 exercise, how few are voluntary in the strict sense !* Nor is it very 
 easy to separate the latter from those which derive their character of 
 voluntariness from the mere circumstance that they are not inconsistent 
 with, or might be suspended by our will or desire. Perhaps the readiest 
 mode of ascertaining them may be to select those which certainly do 
 
 * It might perhaps obviate confusion, to characterize such motions as volitional
 
 276 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 take place, without any efficient desire, and thus to arrive at the others 
 by what our neighbours call "la voie d' exclusion." 
 
 It may seem at first sight, with reference both to what has been 
 already advanced, and to what remains to be said, that the nervous- 
 connections of muscles have been overlooked ; but a little reflection 
 will shew that our remarks upon the action of muscles apply equally 
 to the nerves which excite those organs. A change in the nerve sup- 
 plying a muscle, must undoubtedly take place before the latter can act 
 in obedience to the stimulus of desire, or of any other of the causes to 
 be mentioned hereafter. When we speak of muscular contraction as 
 following immediately upon desire, we by no means wish to intimate 
 that the muscle contracts without a prior affection of the nerves, and 
 indeed of that part of the central nervous organ with which they are 
 connected ; we mean only that desire is the last state of consciousness, 
 or that which is immediately prior to that series of organic phenomena, 
 which constitute nervo-muscular action. 
 
 The motions independent of desire, may be arranged under the 
 following heads : 
 
 1 . Motions immediately consequent upon certain organic conditions,, 
 without sensation. 
 
 2. Upon simple internal sensations. 
 
 3. Upon external sensations. 
 
 4. Upon emotions. 
 
 5. Upon a vague principle called imitation. 
 
 6. Upon habit. 
 
 1. The first group of involuntary motions, is constituted by those 
 which are immediately consequent upon certain organic conditions,, 
 without sensation. It includes all the muscular actions which belong 
 to the mere nutritive life of the system,* and which result from a 
 property in the organization of the part, called irritability, and the 
 application of a stimulus. Such is the contraction of the heart, 
 excited by the stimulus of blood, such also the vermicular motion of 
 the stomach and the intestines. The action of the respiratory muscles 
 belongs to this head, though there has been some controversy on the 
 subject. Some physiologists are of opinion that the movements in the 
 function alluded to are occasioned by a sensation of distress, and a 
 consequent desire of relief produced by the venous blood in the lungs ; 
 
 * These have been generally, but very erroneously, made to monopolize the term 
 involuntary.
 
 INTERNAL SENSATIONS. 277 
 
 but there is no evidence from consciousness that in ordinary respiration 
 any such sensation does actually take place. It is true that when an 
 obstacle is presented to the aeration of the blood, we for the most part 
 experience uneasy feelings, which are followed by voluntary exertions 
 of the accessory muscles of respiration ; but in that kind of respiration 
 which is commonly going on, and frequently when consciousness is 
 altogether suspended, or occupied with other subjects, all that we 
 know of the causation of the muscular action amounts to nothing 
 more than that black blood reaches the lungs, and that the diaphragm 
 descends ; and we have as much reason to say that the former event is 
 the stimulus of the latter, as that blood is the stimulus to the con- 
 traction of the heart ; the only difference being, that the influence of 
 the black blood in the lungs upon the movements of the diaphragm, 
 is probably transmitted by nerves. 
 
 2. We pass on to the second head of motions consequent 
 upon internal sensations which comprehends many interesting 
 actions, and among them certain kinds of respiration, which are 
 frequently characterized as voluntary, though possessing no title to 
 that designation. Respiration does not become voluntary till a feeling 
 of desire has arisen for increasing the action, or for overcoming an 
 impediment to its exercise ; but on many occasions uneasy sensations 
 in the chest occur, and are followed by an increase of respiratory 
 movement, without any mental feeling amounting, to will or desire ; as 
 for instance, in those occasional muscular contractions which constitute 
 sneezing, sighing, coughing, laughing, yawning, &c., and which all 
 belong to the class respiratory. A tickling sensation in the nose causes 
 sneezing ; a sensation of weight about the lower part of the chest, 
 sighing ; an irritation in the windpipe, coughing ; and in each case 
 the action instead of being prompted by the will or desire, takes place 
 in direct opposition to it. We shall content ourselves with merely 
 hinting at these instances, in order that we may have more time for 
 considering certain other interesting movements which belong to the 
 present head ; those, namely, which are employed in preserving the 
 balance of the body. 
 
 Every one by experience knows both the feeling of equilibrium, 
 and the fear of losing it. Yet there is nothing more worthy of admi- 
 ration in the whole animal economy, than the fact, that without any 
 knowledge of the centre of gravity, or of its situation in the body, or 
 of the law by virtue of which a body must fall if a perpendicular
 
 278 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 from the centre of gravity passes outside of the base of support, a 
 person shall notwithstanding experience a sensation which gives him 
 an apprehension of falling, whenever the centre of gravity is lost ; but 
 when we consider that this sensation is immediately followed by 
 instinctive motions, which tend to recover the lost centre, our admira- 
 tion must rise still higher. But although the process of equilibration 
 is essentially instinctive or involuntary, it may ..be much assisted by 
 voluntary exertions and practice. No instinctive feeling or motion 
 could keep a person balanced on a tight rope, on the first occasion of 
 trying that position. The constant use of this feeling in some of our 
 ordinary movements is very striking. Let us take that of walking, 
 for instance, and endeavour to analyse it. The very first action is a 
 shifting of the centre of gravity, which would otherwise be lost in the 
 subsequent movements. To prevent such an occurrence, the weight of 
 the head and trunk is thrown upon one inferior extremity, instead of 
 being shared between the two. After this has been accomplished, the 
 other leg is bent, raised, projected, and replaced on the ground : when 
 replaced it is in a state of extension. The next movement is to throw 
 the centre of gravity into a perpendicular between the legs, by rotating 
 the posterior leg on the foot, and bending the anterior knee. The 
 weight is then shifted to the anterior limb, by raising the heel of the 
 hinder foot (which acts as a lever of the second order) the leg being 
 kept in a state of extension by the same action, so as to form a sort of 
 inflexible rod for pushing the pelvis forwards. Lastly, the hinder leg 
 is bent, raised, and brought up to the other. This is the analysis of a 
 single step, the constituent movements of which require comparatively 
 little nicety of equilibration ; but in walking, the weight of the body 
 is not only transferred from one limb to the other without any inter- 
 mediate rest, but while poised on the one, suffers a motion of rotation 
 on the head of the thigh bone, of much greater extent than in the 
 former instance, because the hinder limb is not replaced upon the 
 ground when it has come into a line with the other, but is kept 
 suspended and projected. During the latter process, the weight of the 
 limb and the action of the muscles which throw the body forward, 
 tend to disturb the equilibrium ; the weight tending to one side and 
 the propulsive force to the other. 
 
 The walk of aged and feeble persons consists of a succession of 
 steps, because in these movements there is less muscular power 
 required, both in balancing the body and in projecting the limbs. A
 
 SENSATION OF SUPPORT. 279 
 
 person who either from weakness or intoxication does not enjoy a full 
 command of his muscles, or, in other words, whose muscles do not act 
 in harmony with the feelings peculiar to equilibrium, has a rolling- 
 gait, occasioned by one leg passing in front of the other. This action 
 results from a want of the natural adjustment between the propulsion, 
 the rotation, and the transference of the weight. 
 
 Giddiness is the loss of the feeling of support ; but what is the 
 cause of the natural feeling of support, or equilibrium ? On first 
 putting this question, it might seem to be answered by saying, that 
 the feeling in question is only that of pressure in a particular part of 
 the body. The whole weight of the system resting on so small a 
 surface as the sole of the foot, must occasion considerable pressure ; 
 and although we have ordinarily no consciousness of it, yet the 
 removal of that pressure, as in the case of falling, may produce a 
 sensation, on the same principle as that which often causes us to feel 
 the absence, but not the presence of a stimulus. This expression, 
 however, is not very logical ; it only means that the nerves of a part 
 having been long accustomed to the presence of a certain object, cease 
 to communicate any impression in connection with that object, but that 
 the removal of the object occasions a new condition of the nerves 
 which is instantly recognized. This fact has been experienced by 
 every one on leaving off a ring, or any article of dress that made some 
 degree of pressure ; the loss of it is immediately discovered, though 
 its presence had been forgotten. Is it a similar feeling which con- 
 stitutes the sensation of falling, that is,' loss of support ? We can 
 scarcely account for it in this manner, because the feeling is not 
 referred to the part which had previously been suffering the weight 
 on the contrary, it is diffused and only like itself. The question then 
 recurs, how is the feeling caused ? "We cannot doubt that although it 
 cannot be identified with the sensation of pressure just alluded to, it 
 bears a very intimate relation with the state of the nerves in the parts 
 which sustained the pressure. When the body is supported, there must 
 be compression in some part or other, greater or less according to the 
 extent of the supporting surface ; when not supported (as when we 
 lose the centre of gravity) there is no such compression. Now although 
 neither the existence nor the absence of this compression may be 
 attended with any local sensation, it is easy to conceive that those parts 
 of the brain,* which are the seats of the feeling and determine the 
 
 * The existence of such parts has been proved by modern vivisectors of animals.
 
 280 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 motions of equilibration, may entertain such, a relation "with the 
 distant nervous extremities, as immediately to undergo a change when 
 the compression of the remote organ is removed, and in that change 
 to produce the feeling which we designate loss of balance, and to 
 excite the corresponding actions. 
 
 Derangement of the feeling of equilibrium may have causes either 
 external or internal. To exemplify the former : a person standing 
 on a high ladder, or on a plank stretched over a chasm, may easily 
 lose his feeling of equilibrium, notwithstanding the same degree of 
 pressure is made as is usual in the upright posture. He is disturbed 
 by his vision, which can perceive no support but the surrounding air ; 
 he imagines that he is falling, and instinctively throws himself into an 
 attitude which was intended to preserve the centre of gravity, but 
 which in reality overthrows it, and thus he falls in reality. Internal 
 causes are more common ; e. y. some disturbance of the nervous 
 system produces in the individual a false kind of vision ; objects 
 appear to move, and the ground on which he stands seems to rise or 
 to fall from under him. He in this case, as in the former, assumes an 
 attitude adapted to his false conception of his relation to the ground 
 on which he stands, and suffers a similar consequence. Or his nervous 
 derangement may be of a different kind. He may experience the 
 sensation of being himself tossed up and down, or whirled round and 
 round, when his support is in reality most secure and his muscles 
 are in a state of inaction, as for instance, in the recumbent posture. 
 Many persons have known this feeling after inhaling tobacco for the 
 first time ; and it is said to occur to the drunkard, either when stagger- 
 ing and reeling, or when prostrate on the ground. 
 
 It would seem that in some cases of vertigo, the feeling of giddiness 
 is not a perverted one, but that the disorder of the nervous system 
 relaxes the muscles which usually preserve the erect posture ; and that 
 upon this relaxation the body is in peril of falling, and is felt to be 
 BO. In this instance the sensation is a true one, that is, indicates the 
 actual condition of the body. The individual thus affected, catches at 
 some support with his upper extremities, which perform the duty of 
 the lower ones. 
 
 In the lower animals the motions of equilibration are sooner 
 developed than in ourselves. The kid follows its mother on the 
 mountain side on the very day of its birth ; and the chicken walks as 
 soon as it has left the shell ; but the child suffers many disappoint-
 
 EXTEKNAL SENSATIONS. 281 
 
 ments before the feeling in question is followed by its appropriate 
 motions. 
 
 It would be interesting to enter into further details upon this 
 subject, but enough has, we hope, been said to shew that desire or 
 volition has no necessary connection with the actions that belong to 
 equilibrium. 
 
 3. The next class of instinctive motions are those immediately 
 consequent upon external sensations. A remarkable instance is the 
 suction of the infant. The simple sensation produced in the lips 
 induces those beautifully connected actions of the muscles of the 
 tongue, mouth, and pharynx, which extract the nutritive fluid. Some- 
 times the mere tactual impression is sufficient ; at others it is necessary 
 that the taste should be excited. No one can for a moment suppose 
 that the infant exerts any volition or feels a desire for the muscular 
 movement in question. If from any circumstance the fluid excites dis- 
 agreeable sensations his muscles do not act. When he has become 
 familiar with the gratification he appears to have the power of increasing 
 the actions ; i.e., he remembers the motions which have formerly pro- 
 duced enjoyment, and desires their repetition to a degree which 
 wonderfully increases their energy. He also becomes able to suspend 
 them either from mere caprice, or from other motives, even when the 
 sensation which was wont to provoke the action is scarcely less 
 agreeable than formerly. In animals this kind of instinctive movement 
 consequent on sensation is very remarkable. The lamb just born 
 follows its mother by sight ; the blind puppy by scent ; and the newly- 
 hatched chicken pecks at grain. Another example of the class before 
 us is the motion which follows an impression of pain. Place a hot 
 body on the hand of a person in deep thought, and the latter is 
 retracted immediately. If a person walking rapidly round a corner 
 happens to come suddenly upon the margin of a pit, the sight produces 
 instantaneously a movement the very opposite to progression. In this 
 case the vision and motion are all but simultaneous, and certainly have 
 no intervening desire or volition. Some motions belonging to this 
 class take place in opposition to desire. Winking the eye is a motion 
 which follows the sight of any thing which threatens the organ with 
 injury. It is a common trick among school boys to attempt to restrain 
 the action when a body is made to appear to approach the organ ; but 
 it is only after repeated trials that the attempt succeeds. 
 
 4. The fourth class comprehends those movements which are
 
 282 MES T D AND MUSCLE. 
 
 prompted by emotions. From this category we must by necessity 
 exclude such, movements as are the objects of desire, though the excep- 
 tion does not extend to those which merely follow the desire of other 
 objects. Some of the most common instances of the division under 
 consideration are the muscular movements expressive of the passions. 
 The greater number of these occur in the face, and their character is 
 familiar to every one. Whether the recognition of the presence of a 
 passion in another person be the effect of instinct on association, would 
 perhaps admit of some question ; but no one doubts of the fact. Joy, 
 sorrow, anger, complacency, fear, courage, confidence, distrust, all have 
 their lineaments in the quick darting motions of the eye, the varied 
 surface of the cheek, the expansive nostril, the pliant lip, and the 
 smooth or wrinkled forehead. All the changes in expression occur 
 merely because certain emotions have occurred, and there is no inter- 
 mediate mental event. A struggle for predominant expression often 
 takes place among the emotions, when several are present or occurring 
 in quick succession ; but the strongest is, cateris paribus, that which 
 is obeyed by the muscles. No emotion is offcener contradictory of the 
 others than desire. A man conscious of a particular passion, and 
 that it may be betrayed by his face, desires to restrain the manifesta- 
 tion. His success will depend on the degree of the first emotion, or 
 on the frequency with which his facial muscles have assumed an 
 arrangement indicative of the state of mind which he wishes to- 
 simulate. Gestures are of a nature precisely analogous to physiog- 
 nomical expression. 
 
 Under the present head we may also arrange those vocal movements 
 which communicate particular feelings, and are common to all ages of 
 the human being, and to all animals possessed of vocal organs. The 
 shriek of terror, the scream of pain, the sigh of grief, the yell of 
 resentment, the exclamations of joy and delight, are as every body 
 knows involuntary, nay, sometimes anti- voluntary. But they may 
 all own desire for their cause, like gesticulations and changes of coun- 
 tenance when we are anxious to feign the passions which they indicate. 
 The emotions which approach more to intellectual conditions are also 
 related with muscular actions altogether involuntary. The perception 
 of the beautiful, the sublime, the wonderful, and the ludicrous, are all 
 attended with appropriate demonstrations, and none more decidedly 
 than the last. 
 
 The group under discussion includes certain actions of the mus-
 
 MOVEMENTS FROM IMITATION. 283 
 
 cles of respiration, which have not received that degree of attention 
 which they deserve. Every one must have noticed the alterations of 
 breathing under the influence of emotion. It becomes quicker or 
 slower, or is interrupted, merely as it would appear in consequence of 
 the excitement of the nervous system ; but the final cause of the 
 derangement is by no means evident. When two or more persons are 
 engaged in some action which requires stealth and silence, it is common 
 for them to remind one another to hold the breath, lest it should be 
 audible. But why should this injunction be necessary ? Under 
 ordinary circumstances respiration occurs as noiselessly to others as 
 unconsciously to the subject. No other probable solution of the 
 question occurs to me than the following. On occasions of the nature 
 alluded to, the solicitude or mental attention produces an unusual 
 excitement of the nervous system, and a consequent hurry of the 
 breathing, which becomes audible ; and it is to restrain this derange- 
 ment of an ordinarily quiet action that the voluntary effort is enjoined. 
 Something also may be due to the prolonged intervals between 
 inspiration and expiration, demanded by those movements in which 
 particular care and nicety are requisite. In such cases the chest must, 
 for longer intervals than ordinary, present a steady immovable ful- 
 crum to various muscles, a condition which can only be effected by the 
 closure of the windpipe, and by the consequent prevention of the 
 ingress or egress of air. The mere attention of the mind to a sensation, 
 that of hearing, for instance, will likewise cause an irregularity of 
 respiration ; a fact familiar to every one who has listened with anxiety 
 to a faint sound, the step of an expected friend, a distant echo, an 
 important whisper, &c. Mere intellectual excitement will produce the 
 same effect. Who has not remarked the hurried or suspended breath 
 of an audience, under the influence of a powerful harangue ? 
 
 5. The fifth section embraces those movements which pertain to 
 imitation. Imitation may be active or passive, i.e. prompted by desire 
 or independent of it. The latter only concerns our present subject. 
 One person yawns, or sighs, or laughs, because another does ; a fact 
 utterly inexplicable in the present state of our knowledge.* Any set of 
 muscles may acquire particular actions and assemblages of actions, by 
 passive imitation only ; and to such a degree, indeed, that desire is 
 often vainly employed in opposition to this principle. A child or 
 
 * Some fancy that they can explain the fact by referring it to sympathy. But 
 this is only comparing it to something equally unintelligible which occurs in the 
 system of a single individual.
 
 284 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 susceptible female, if frequently in company with a person who winks, 
 or stammers, or falters in his gait, will fall into similar habits, not- 
 withstanding there may be a variety of inducements for attempting to 
 avoid them. The following passage from Coleridge's " Christabel " 
 is a well-drawn picture of involuntary imitation : 
 " The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, 
 
 She nothing sees no sight hut one ! 
 
 The maid, devoid of guilt and sin, 
 
 I know not how, in fearful wise 
 
 So deeply had she drunken in 
 
 That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, 
 
 That all her features were resigned 
 
 To this sole image in her mind ; 
 
 And. passively did imitate 
 
 That look of dull and treacherous hate. 
 
 And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, 
 
 Still picturing that look askance, 
 
 With forced unconscious sympathy, 
 
 Full before her father's view." 
 
 In a similar manner persons contract the pronunciation of others ; 
 a fact that will account for national peculiarities of accent. The laugh 
 of a crowd, nay, its gestures and acclamations are often quite as much 
 the result of this principle of imitation, as of similarity of feeling 
 derived from a common source. But the most remarkable instance of 
 involuntary imitative motions are observed in various disorders of the 
 nervous system. The contagiousness of hysterical exclamations and 
 convulsions is known to every one. Physicians are not unfamiliar 
 with the communication of other disorders of motion of a more serious 
 nature ; such are the imitative forms of epilepsy and chorea, to the 
 latter of which we shall recur directly. Such affections are not only 
 without desire but contrary to it. The influence of the principle under 
 consideration is of the last importance, not only in a physical, but also 
 in a political and moral point of view. It has too often happened that 
 the most atrocious crimes have been repeated by persons, who are not 
 only free from the operation of motives similar to those which instigated 
 the first perpetrators, but whose minds may loathe the very contempla- 
 tion of such actions at the very time that the morbid impulse is 
 hurrying them on. It has long been matter of observation that one 
 suicide creates many. A remarkable fact of this kind is related by 
 M. Andral. " A few years since, at the Hotel des Invalides, a veteran 
 hung himself on the threshold of one of the doors of a corridor. No 
 suicide had occurred in the establishment for two years previously ;
 
 THE BLACK PLAGUE. 285 
 
 but in the succeeding fortnight, five invalids hung themselves on the 
 same cross-bar, and the governor was obliged to shut up the passage. 
 During the last days of the empire, again, an individual ascended the 
 column in the Place Vendome, and threw himself down and was dashed 
 to pieces. The event caused a great sensation ; and in the course of 
 the ensuing week, four persons imitated the example, and the police 
 were obliged to proscribe the entrance to the column." Would that 
 the influence of a morbid imitation were confined even to self-murder ! 
 Such, however, is far from being the case. The study of that most 
 awful of all kinds of mental alienation, the homicidal monomania or 
 murder madness, reveals but too many facts confirmatory of the 
 principle, that persons, altogether uninfluenced by any ulterior object,, 
 may perpetrate actions most revolting to the moral nature of man in 
 its healthy condition ; and that the only discoverable reason is, that: 
 such persons have witnessed or heard of the commission of similar 
 atrocities by others ! So convinced are we of the injurious influence 
 which the narration of crimes exerts upon individuals of a susceptible 
 temperament, that we should rejoice to see some kind of restraint laid 
 upon that extreme license with which the details of crimes are con- 
 stantly obtruded on the public eye. 
 
 It is impossible to find more striking instances of the influence of 
 imitation or sympathy than in the records of certain epidemic nervous 
 disorders. Dr. Hecker of Berlin, the author of the History of the 
 Black Plague, has written a most curious narrative of the epidemic 
 dance of the middle ages, a French translation of which we have 
 perused in the last number of the " Annales d'Hygiene."* Dr. Hecker 
 relates that soon after the cessation of the black plague, in the four- 
 teenth century, bands of men and women, afflicted with the derangement 
 in question, used to wander from village to village, and even through 
 towns, presenting to the inhabitants a most strange and distressing 
 spectacle. They were wont to form in circles, and then to dance with 
 the greatest violence and transport, whirling themselves round and 
 round, utterly unconscious of every thing about them, till they fell 
 exhausted to the ground. They suffered spasms and convulsions of 
 the most torturing description till the. paroxysm abated. During the 
 dance, they often beheld apparitions ; some were blessed with visions 
 of angels, and with glimpses of heaven, while others could perceive 
 only demons and flashes from the infernal regions. Wherever these 
 
 * Since the above was -written, an English translation of this history, \>y Dr. 
 Babingtou, has been announced.
 
 286 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 unhappy individuals arrived, numbers of the inhabitants became 
 similarly affected. To prove that this communication of the malady 
 was the effect of imitation or sympathy, Dr. Hecker states that the 
 sight of certain wretches, who, for the sake of gain, affected these 
 antics, produced the same results as in the true cases. These dances 
 were honoured with the names of St. John and of St. Guy ; of the 
 former, because they commenced at certain religious ceremonies sacred 
 to that apostle (which, however, resembled Bacchanalian orgies rather 
 than Christian rites) ; of the latter, because many sufferers had been 
 cured in the chapels of St. Guy, whom they were therefore bound in 
 gratitude to consider their patron saint. The epidemic was not 
 extinguished for nearly two centuries. One not unlike it prevailed in 
 Italy, under the name of Tarantulism. The persons affected fancied 
 themselves bitten by a particular kind of lizard, and became melan- 
 choly and stupid, till aroused by the music of the flute or guitar ; they 
 would then become animated, and commence dancing in a most 
 extravagant manner, never giving over till overpowered by extreme 
 fatigue. Sometimes the patients had a vehement desire for the sea, 
 and flung themselves into it. The disorder disappeared in its epidemic 
 form in the eighteenth century. Hecker alludes to a similar affection 
 which prevailed in Abyssinia, under the name of Tigretier, and which 
 has been described by our countryman, Pearce. It had the same 
 dancing character, and was soothed by music. The irresistible 
 tendency to imitation was strongly marked in the case of a woman, 
 (related by Tissot) who never could avoid doing anything which she 
 saw others do, and was consequently obliged to be blindfolded when 
 she walked the streets. To the operation of the same principle 
 Dr. Hecker attributes certain fanatical exhibitions among the Jumpers 
 in our own country, whose fame, it appears, has extended to Germany. 
 Locality is often deeply concerned in the production of similar incidents. 
 Thus we are told by a French author, that a supposed miracle having 
 been performed before the convent of St. Genevieve, such a number of 
 similar occurrences happened on the same spot in a few days, that the 
 police were compelled to post a peremptory notice on the gate, " pro- 
 hibiting any individuals from working miracles in the place in question." 
 The limits prescribed to this essay oblige me to abstain from 
 further remarks upon this subject, else it would be interesting to trace 
 the imitative instinct in certain of the lower animals, to shew its sub- 
 servience to various important purposes in our own species, such as its 
 vast relations with the moral and social condition of man, its connection
 
 MOVEMENTS OF HABIT. 287 
 
 ;also with, the facts that belong to animal magnetism, and with various 
 kinds of mental aberration. 
 
 6. The last group of involuntary actions are those of habit ; a 
 term inclusive of a variety of most interesting motions, which although 
 originally produced by desire, have acquired an instinctive character. 
 It is a law, no less constant in the intellectual and moral, than in the 
 corporeal ceconomy of man, that actions which have frequently co- 
 existed, or followed each other in a certain succession, have a tendency 
 to repeat that association or sequence, even when the causes which 
 originally produced them are no longer acting. Thus, let A, B, and 
 C, represent so many muscular motions which have followed each 
 other, but which have each been effected by desire. After a repetition 
 of their occurrence a certain number of times in the same order, they 
 will stand in the relation of causes and effects to each other. It will 
 no longer be necessary that an act of volition should transpire between 
 A and B, or between B and C ; but the mere occurrence of A, will be 
 enough to produce B, and B will have the same effect on C. In our 
 walking and active moments we can scarcely exist without affording 
 an illustration of this law. To walk, to run, to assume any ordinary 
 attitude, to perform any common manipulation, to speak, to write, is 
 to present an exemplification of the same principle. To all the ele- 
 mentary motions of which these actions are composed, desire or volition 
 was originally, perhaps, a necessary antecedent, but is such no longer. 
 Let us take the instance of walking. A person wishes to fetch a book 
 at the other end of a room, and walks in search of it : in this per- 
 formance, does he will the several motions in which walking consists ? 
 If he has been enfeebled by disease the muscular actions may require 
 the stimulus of desire, but in ordinary health and strength he goes 
 through the evolutions unconsciously. How is it then that these 
 voluntary actions take place without any volition at all ? The expla- 
 nation is a very simple one, and we cannot help wondering that some 
 very able thinkers have thought it necessary to conjecture that in such 
 a case the individual must in reality have willed each separate move- 
 ment, but that the acts of consciousness were so brief and transient 
 that he had forgotten them. The true theory appears to our appre- 
 hension involved in the fact, that the motions in question have so often 
 followed each other that the mere wish to perform the particular 
 action which they compose is enough to prompt the whole series. But 
 it is not necessary that the person should even thus far will the motion. 
 It is enough that he wishes a certain change of place, and the action
 
 288 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 which has so often followed this wish occurs without the additional 
 impulse of any other desire or act of volition separately devoted to it. 
 Moreover, he may walk in a certain direction, without any desire at 
 all. He may set out towards some point, his will having merely 
 directed the initiative movement. In the course of the walk, his mind 
 becomes occupied by various thoughts, and the intention of his journey 
 not being constantly present, he is liable to be carried in a direction 
 very different from that which he had designed. He arrives, perhaps,, 
 at a turn in the way which he has been accustomed to pursue, and is 
 taken along it unconsciously, far out of his original plan. He may 
 even find himself knocking at the door of a deceased friend, or of one 
 whose acquaintance he had dropped. In the latter case, the sight of 
 the road, or of the house which was wont to determine his desire for 
 moving towards it, has been sufficient to produce the movement (with- 
 out any intermediate desire) by the mere force of habit ; which will 
 continue to operate, till he is reminded of his intention of proceeding 
 in a different direction. 
 
 Let us try another instance, that of speaking. The articulation of 
 every word was once, perhaps, the result of effort ; a voluntary 
 exertion of the vocal organ to imitate a sound produced by another. 
 But now it is enough for the word to occur to the mind, and the 
 pronunciation follows, without any intermediate volition, merely because 
 the idea and the action have been accustomed to the relation of ante- 
 cedence and consequence. Again : I may use some word which I not 
 only did not intend, but which I would much rather have avoided, as 
 it may be personally offensive to the person with whom I am conversing. 
 This word, in all probability, will be found to be similar in sound to 
 that which was present to my mind, but which was not expressed by 
 my voice. The word was the product of a certain aggregation or 
 series of vocal movements, which followed some initial movement 
 common to it, and to that other series which properly belonged to the 
 idea in the mind. This we conceive to be the meaning of what is 
 commonly called a lapsus lingua, and is very different from a. 
 malapropism : the latter is a mistake of the mind, the former is a mistake 
 of the muscles. A similar error not unfrequently occurs in writing. A 
 perfect master of orthography may commit a mistake of this kind ; he 
 may write, for instance, the adverb there, though the pronoun was in 
 his mind, merely from an irregularity of muscular succession. The 
 tracing of a word on paper is the result of a particular set of muscular 
 movements; but words of very different meanings may have very
 
 UNCONSCIOUS MUSCULAR MOTION. 289 
 
 similar sets, and even initially identical, as in the instance just men- 
 tioned ; and hence the mistake arises. We have heard persons say 
 that a bad pen would make them mis-spell ; in such a case, the 
 impediment offered by the pen causes an irregularity in the succession 
 of the movements. But it may be asked, how is it that we sometimes 
 utter or write a word no less dissimilar in sound and in symbolical 
 characters than foreign from the subject discoursed of ? The causa- 
 tion in this case is different ; the error exists in the mind, and arises 
 from our being occupied with more than one series of ideas ; in which 
 case an accidental exchange takes place between the series com- 
 municated, and that which is retained. To a person engaged in 
 writing, when others are talking around him, the accident is very 
 liable to happen. Some word makes a particular impression on his 
 mind, and diverts him a moment from his previous train of thought ; 
 but his muscles continue to act, and follow the impulse of the word in 
 question, as of any other that passes through his mind more germane 
 to the matter in hand. From what has been said, then, it is deducible, 
 that there are motions immediately consequent on ideas, in the same 
 manner as others are consequent on sensations and emotions ; but we 
 have not arranged the former in a separate class, because we are not 
 aware of any evidence that ideas assume the relation of proximate 
 causes to motions, except under the operation of the general law or 
 principle which we have been engaged in illustrating ; while sensations 
 and emotions, on the contrary, manifestly produce their appropriate 
 actions without any reference whatever either to association or 
 succession.* 
 
 From the consideration of habit in connection with muscular 
 motion, we cannot resist the temptation of an easy transition, to offer 
 one or two remarks upon talent. When a person is observed to be 
 particularly skilful in any art or operation, it is common enough to 
 
 * The beneficial influence of this law of muscular action will be obvious, on con- 
 sidering the inconvenience that would arise, were it necessary that the mind should 
 be constantly directed to our ordinary actions. Authorship would be as rare as now 
 it is frequent, were a writer's . thoughts to be distracted by attention to his manual 
 employment. How many sublime meditations would have been lost to the world, if 
 the legs of peripatetic philosophers had required the constant superintendauce of 
 their minds. Or to come down to more ordinary pursuits; the knitting needles of 
 the intelligent lady would make but slow progress in their charitable employment, 
 were her muscles unable to guide them without the direction of the mind, which is 
 engaged in the conversation of her friends. How could the weaver sing his psalms, 
 or the waggoner whistle his rustic strains, did the shuttle of the one, or the whip of 
 the other, require that mental attention which is occupied by their respective melo- 
 dies ? Hundreds of such instances will occur to every one.
 
 290 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 allege two different causes for his dexterity. In the opinion of one 
 speculator it is due to practice or habit ; of another, to original power 
 or capability. In some few cases, only one of these opinions may be 
 right ; in the majority they will both be correct. Habit, we have said, 
 is the tendency of certain actions to co-exist or to succeed each other, 
 for no other reason than that they have formerly been co-existent or 
 successive ; hence the facility of an often practised movement. Talent 
 is a peculiar constitution of an individual, by virtue of which a suc- 
 cession of actions which in other persons must have very frequently 
 succeeded each other, in order to be performed readily, do in that 
 individual occur easily at the first effort, or after a very few efforts. 
 A difficult operation is one that with most persons requires a number 
 of oft- repeated desires, or volitions, or attempts (attempts being notions 
 begun and not ended), but which may become perfectly easy after- 
 wards. Yet this operation may to one individual be easy at the first 
 inclination of his mind to perform it, whence he is said to have a gift, 
 a talent, a genius for it. If the action partake of the sublime or 
 beautiful, as in the execution of a fine painting or sculpture, he may 
 even be said to be inspired. But whatever name or expression be 
 annexed to the facility in question, it implies that very little desire or 
 effort is necessary, and that the actions produced by it approach very 
 closely to the instinctive. To instance a talent for drawing. One boy 
 shall, upon the first attempt to copy any object on paper, produce a far 
 more correct representation than one who has made twenty attempts. 
 For producing a successful copy two things are necessary a correct 
 remembrance of form (for it is impossible to look at that which is to 
 be copied, at the time of using the muscular action which directs the 
 lines) and the occurrence of such muscular movements as direct the 
 pencil along an imaginary line on the paper, corresponding to the one 
 remembered. The figure, or a part of it, must be imagined on the 
 paper and traced by the hand. A talent, then, for drawing, signifies 
 a correct memory of figure, and a facility in executing the requisite 
 movements. The former may be present, but without the latter will 
 never ensure success to the efforts ; nor the latter without the former. 
 The separateness of these facilities may often be noticed in children 
 when learning to write, which is obviously a kind of drawing. One 
 will be able to trace in ink, with great neatness and regularity, 
 characters which, have been marked in pencil ; thus shewing that there 
 is no defect in the muscular actions : and yet shall be incapable of
 
 CLASSIFICATION OF MOTIONS. 291 
 
 tracing thorn without this assistance. Another, again, may have a 
 sufficiently definite conception of the form, and yet fail iu the delinea- 
 tion from want of muscular readiness. Each, however, after many 
 unsuccessful efforts will attain his object, and even perform the 
 operation with ease, by help of that principle the discussion of which 
 has led us into observations far more lengthened than we originally 
 contemplated. 
 
 A retrospect of the several classes of motions which have passed 
 under our survey will convince us, that to say the least, a very large 
 share of the movements commonly considered to be the immediate and 
 exclusive products of volition may and do most frequently originate 
 in other states of mind. Perhaps the following attempt at a classi- 
 fication, if useful in no other respect, may serve the purpose of 
 recapitulation. 
 
 1. Involuntary Motions. Synonym.es Organic, Automatic, Instinct ice. 
 Character In ordinary circumstances, unoriginated, and uncontrolled 
 by desire, and often opposed to it. 
 
 2. Voluntary Motions. Synonymes Animal, Relative. Character 
 Controllable by and coincident with desire, but not indebted to it for 
 their origin. 
 
 3. Volitional Motions. Character Originated by desires, of which 
 they are the sole objects. 
 
 We are fully aware that this arrangement is liable to the objection, 
 that the same specimens of muscular actions might at different times 
 be placed in different classes. Thus coughing, when induced by a phy- 
 sical necessity, and contrary to the inclination, would belong to the first ; 
 when occuring physically, and capable of being checked, but allowed 
 to continue because known to relieve the chest, would be ranked in 
 the second ; when produced for the sake of mimicry or affectation, its 
 place would be in the third. Difficulties of this kind attend classifica- 
 tions of every science ; but if they afibred us any assistance in 
 distinguishing phenomena their end is answered. 
 
 To some of our readers it may at first sight appear that we have 
 been busied in a mere controversy of words ; but a further consideration 
 will, it is hoped, convince them that actual diffences of ideas have been 
 involved in the discussion. But if they should urge that it is useless, 
 or laborious trifling, to spend so much time in distinguishing such faint 
 shades of thought, in untangling such gossamer webs, they might be 
 asked (without dwelling upon the advantage of keeping ia readiness
 
 292 MIND AND MUSCLE. 
 
 and keenness, by constant exercise, that faculty of analysis which is 
 the chief and essential instrument of all true logic,) whether such 
 topics as have engaged us, may not be at least as fit objects of 
 consideration, as whether there be a resisting medium in the universe 
 or not, whether light be a radiation or an undulation, whether the 
 central vessels of a plant carry sap or air, &c., &c., questions which are 
 justly esteemed very worthy of the attention of philosophers, not 
 because they are applicable to any practical purpose, but because they 
 are questions of truth. All branches of knowledge are liable to such 
 objections as we have alluded to. And if it be asked, why say so 
 much about things so well known and familiar as desire, and will, and 
 motion ? we content ourselves with replying, that a similar question 
 might be put to the geologist, what possible good is there in looking 
 so earnestly at a bed of gravel? or to the botanist, why spend so 
 much time over a handful of common weeds ? or to the entomologist, 
 what can you find to interest you in the dissection of a beetle or 
 butterfly ? Such idle queries are constantly asked by the ignorant, to 
 whom all things are alike for whom there are no differences. But it 
 is more to be lamented, that individuals extremely well informed upon 
 one branch of science should depreciate other branches, which they 
 do not happen to have studied. Thus a person whose attention has 
 not been directed to the phenomena of mind, and their connection 
 with organic action, may feel disposed to consider discourses on such 
 subjects as necessarily dull and unintelligible ; or may pronounce upon 
 them a very common damnatory phrase, " mere metaphysical jargon." 
 But it would be fair to remind him, that it is far easier to condemn a 
 science than to study it ; that a landscape might be possibly beautiful, 
 notwithstanding a person might not choose to look at it ; and that a 
 Chinese might consider the language of Homer and Plato an unmean- 
 ing gibberish. 
 
 As it regards the particular topics of this paper, the writer begs 
 that their capability of affording matter for interesting meditation 
 may not be judged of by the manner in which he has handled them. 
 Any obscurity, or wearisome intricacy, should be charged less against 
 the subject than against the choice of the expressions, and the con- 
 struction of the sentences.
 
 HABIT. 
 
 A LECTURE DELIVERED AT THE BRISTOL INSTITUTION, MAX, 1853. 
 
 PROPOSE on this occasion to invite your attention to a class of 
 phenomena generally designated by the word Habit. This 
 wor ^> as vou are awar e, is one of various meanings ; and yet 
 through them all you will find a thread of connection. It 
 denotes that which has been observed so often in a living organism, 
 that it is regarded as having something of permanence or constancy in 
 a being which is evermore liable to change. It sometimes implies a 
 cause ; as when we notice that a friend has become stout or thin, and 
 our suspicion is put down by the remark " Nay, but he is of a full 
 or spare habit," which means, that there is something in his original 
 constitution, whether derived from inheritance or noted in an early 
 period of his history, which is considered to be the cause of what has 
 become the ordinary condition of this person's frame as to plumpness 
 or leanness. Or it simply expresses a mode of action, the final or 
 ultimate explanation of which is simply that it has occurred so often 
 as to be always looked for. A stamp of permanence has been given 
 to what at first might have been regarded as casual and temporary 
 that is, begotten of the circumstances under which it first originated, 
 and to be expected to recur only under like conditions. This reference 
 to habit as something ultimate or final, springs from the tendency in 
 the human mind to acquiesce in the customary. From the unreasoning 
 peasant, who quietly tells some traveller, startled by what he conceives 
 to be a foolish or even outrageous mode of action, that it is the custom, 
 io the philosopher, who, unable to discover any more remote 
 antecedent to the chain of sequences under his survey, says, that such 
 is the natural order of events, the mental tendency is the same. A
 
 294 HABIT. 
 
 thing familiar is customary, and what is customary is acquiesced in. 
 Nay, there is a tendency to imitate it passively. And what was an 
 individual trick or habit becomes a fashion or social convention. 
 
 Habit is sometimes used in a more vague signification, as when we 
 speak of the habits of animals or their customary actions, and when it 
 would be more correct to say, instinctive actions. But in this case, the 
 habits are referred to as the effects of the instincts. And if the phrase 
 " Instincts and Habits" of animals be used, it is intended to distinguish 
 that mysterious principle called instinct from the action which it 
 prompts. Not, however, that habit in its strict sense may not be 
 predicated of the lower animals ; for as they are the subjects of volition 
 and reasoning processes to a certain extent, so also they may be subject 
 to habit. 
 
 It is not uncommon also to speak of the habits of nations or races, 
 meaning thereby, such modes of life and action as are usual to them. 
 Perhaps in all the senses of the word we shall find a connection with 
 its etymology, and that it bears reference to something which has been 
 held (habitus J retained after being acquired ; something added to the 
 individual, and henceforth always associated with him. Again ; dress 
 is a habit, and coutume passes into costume. But we have to treat of 
 habit in a more restricted sense, or as I have expressed it in the title 
 to this lecture " Habit physiologically considered." As physiology is 
 the science which treats of vital actions, so we have to investigate habit 
 with reference to these, or at least to some of them. We shall consider 
 it in reference to those which constitute the life of relations in man 
 those functions which place him in relation with the outward world 
 sensation, motion, and thought. But while each of these heads will 
 have some discussion, the greater part of our survey will be devoted 
 to habit in relation to motion. 
 
 Some of the most curious examples of actions resulting from habit 
 are to be found among those which we generally associate in our minds 
 with the prosecution of some purpose, the relief of some feeling, the 
 expression of some emotion, and yet in these cases there is no such 
 final cause discernible. " Why does Mr. Thunderton speak so loundly 
 and angrily? does the occasion call for it?" " Oh, that's his way 
 it is a habit he has got." " What does Mr. Scrutator find so very 
 remarkable in us ? Do you see how he fixes his eyes upon us ?" 
 "Oh! that's nothing he always does so it is his habit." "Don't 
 you pity that poor gentleman? he is obliged to cough at every
 
 IN RELATION TO MOTION. 295 
 
 clause of his sentences." " Oh, no, he is quite well. We call it his 
 iuterjectional or ejaculatory cough ; and very expressive it is, like that 
 of one of the fictional characters of the day ; it is a habit he has fallen 
 into." " That person must surely be very unwell very giddy. See 
 how he sways about in his walk he will surely fall." " Oh ! no, 
 he always walks in that way he got the habit early in life." "What 
 is that gentleman in search of? Do you see how he examines every- 
 thing on the table and mantle-piece? What is he looking for?" 
 " That shows you don't know him ! We never notice it he has had 
 that habit as long as we have known him many years ago." These 
 cases might be multiplied indefinitely. In each you observe that an 
 action which appears to a stranger to be generated by a particular 
 occasion or circumstance, is by one familiar with the subject of it 
 explained, and seemingly quite to his satifaction, as being an habitual 
 eccentricity. That action, or manner, or mode of expression which 
 strikes us as odd and exceptional, has in the observation of others 
 occurred so frequently as to be considered necessary to the individual, 
 the result of his acquired bodily or mental constitution. It is, in 
 common phrase, "second nature," Habit. 
 
 We are not, however, about to spend much time upon these 
 abnormal instances. For in the category of Habit must be placed a 
 great number of our most ordinary and familiar actions. Such are 
 those actions which have become secondarily instinctive, or automatic ; 
 those wonderful acquirements which we call standing, walking, 
 running, grasping and handling, speech and talking, and those less 
 universal but still not uncommon accomplishments of swimming, 
 climbing, dancing : all the manual arts or handicrafts, and the fine 
 or sesthetical arts : all these belong to habit, as a principle of action, 
 no less than do those actions which we call mechanical, and those 
 aberrant movements which are designated nervous tricks and figets. 
 
 HABIT IN RELATION TO MOTION. 
 
 The function of muscles is, as you are aware, to move some part or 
 the whole of the body, or to impress some motion on surrounding 
 objects. A muscle is a bundle of fibres, which, in shortening them- 
 selves, bring their two ends nearer to each other. For various reasons, 
 which we have no time to consider, several muscles act together in 
 effecting particular movements. It is obvious, therefore, that they must
 
 296 HABIT. 
 
 act harmoniously, and to effect this they are under the governance of a 
 central impulse. The muscular fibres are called into action by motor 
 nerves, and the impulses in these several motor nerves are associated, 
 or derive a unity of origin from a nervous centre, as it is called, a part 
 which receives an impression or imparts an impulse. Within the com- 
 pass of the spinal cord and the brain an immense number of these 
 centres or ganglia are congregated, and so closely packed together as 
 to seem to be one substance. 
 
 Some movements in the body are unaccompanied by sensation, and 
 not instigated by the will ; these are often called the involuntary, and 
 sometimes instinctive, movements. All the mechanism consists in the 
 transmission of an impression by an afferent nerve to the ganglion 
 which originates an impulse in the motor nerve. These movements 
 may occur in an animal deprived of consciousness, or the susceptibility 
 of feeling, as well as in one possessed of it. Thus, suppose the spine 
 of a frog has been cut across the middle, if you pinch the extremity of 
 one of the hinder limbs the whole limb will be retracted. We are 
 constantly the subjects of many such actions ; one of the most striking 
 examples is the series of muscular actions employed in breathing : a 
 wonderful congeries of muscles which open the aperture of the wind- 
 pipe, expand the chest, and so admit the fresh air, and afterwards expel 
 the air which has yielded its oxygen to the wants of the blood all 
 these are put into action by different nerves, which convey an impression 
 to the central respiratory ganglion, which sets in motion the requisite 
 muscles. These movements are often accompanied by sensation, and 
 may be altered, to a certain extent, by the will ; but they are quite 
 capable of going on, and in the healthy state they always do go on, 
 without the one or the other, as we know at the present moment. Were 
 other proof needed, it would be enough to observe the breathing in a 
 person profoundly asleep or rendered insensible by disease, or in an 
 animal deprived of those parts of the nervous system which minister to 
 sensation and volition. This class of automatic movements has been 
 called of late years reflex, or excito-motor. 
 
 There is another set of movements which are prompted by sensation, 
 and are yet independent of the will. They are designated by some 
 physiologists as consensual. Dr. Carpenter uses the term sensori-motor. 
 I shall employ the term sensational ; and, further, I think it desirable 
 to discriminate these movements into two subdivisions the subjectively 
 sensational, and the objectively sensational. Now what do we mean
 
 SENSATIONS OBJECTIVE AND SUBJECTIVE. 297 
 
 by subjective sensations as distinguished from objective ? An objective 
 sensation is one that gives us information of something in the outward 
 world, something that does not involve our consciousness or remind us 
 of our own individual existence. I see a green meadow, or hear the 
 song of a bird, or smell the fragrance of a flower, without my mind 
 being cognizant of anything but the objects which have excited the 
 sensations of vision, hearing, and smell. These, then, are objective 
 sensations. The subjective are those in which the consciousness is 
 involved, the ego, the individual self, partially or exclusively. I touch 
 a cold marble : while I recognise the marble as the cause of my feeling, 
 and attribute to it a certain quality which gives me the feeling, my 
 consciousness, or an affection of me, myself, as the subject of the out- 
 ward operation, forms a part of the sensation. But this is a mixed 
 example, and might be called an objective-subjective sensation. Take 
 another example : I feel ill. I do not know what is the matter with 
 me, I have no pain. I am surrounded by pleasant objects, and within 
 reach of everything likely to make me happy ; but I feel ill. This is 
 an intensely subjective sensation. Take one more example: I have a 
 headache, i.e., I feel pain and I refer the pain to my head. This is a 
 mixed sensation ; it is subjective so far as the feeling of pain implicates 
 the ego ; it is objective with reference to the seat of the pain ; that is, 
 the part of the outer world constituted by the body. It may seem 
 strange to talk of a person's own body as being external to his con- 
 scious identity. But if you consider the matter fully, you will find 
 that the knowledge of our bodily organs is an acquirement, and not a 
 part of the feeling of personal consciousness. A young child suffering 
 pain in some part of the body is often quite incapable of saying where 
 the pain is seated. In disturbed states of mind, the separateness of 
 subject and object is very well shown with reference to these bodily 
 feelings. I have known a person in delirium say to a bystander, " You 
 have a dreadful headache, sir." He was the sufferer, but his morbid 
 intellect linked the pain with the image of the person before him, 
 instead of with his own body. 
 
 These sensations may then, I have said, whether subjective or 
 objective, have motions immediately related to them ; responding to 
 .them, as directly as those which are instigated by the will often coin- 
 cident with, and controllable by the will but still having causation 
 of their own. 
 
 As an example of subjectively sensational motions I may adduce
 
 298 
 
 HABIT. 
 
 the act of coughing. A tickling sensation is felt in the wind-pipe ; a 
 series of muscular actions ensue, vehemently forcing the air out of the 
 chest, and often not to be restrained or prevented by the "will. Winking 
 the eyes is another example. The movements which preserve the 
 equilibrium of the body are mainly prompted and guided by subjective 
 sensations, with but little and often no assistance from voluntary 
 efforts. This governing feeling of equilibrium is directly related with 
 pressure on the nerves of the feet, or whatever parts are supporting 
 the rest of the body. If that compression be removed, giddiness, or a 
 feeling of loss of balance is the result ; and in an instant such muscles 
 are thrown into action as tend to restore the equilibrium. 
 
 Of the objectively sensational movements, no instances are more 
 striking than those which are associated with visions. Close one eye 
 of an infant, and mark the movement of the eyeball as you shift the 
 light before it then let both be exposed, and see the admirable con- 
 cert of action between them and when you are acquainted with the 
 muscles and their nerves that effect these movements, how nicely they 
 are adjusted and balanced against each other, and with what delicacy 
 they mutually respond, your admiration is great indeed. Though 
 these actions are thus immediately related with vision, they may be, 
 and very frequently are, the servants of our will, as when they fulfil 
 our wish of looking in particular directions, or at different objects. 
 But, in these cases, motion does not enter into our consciousness. The 
 object of our desire is the sight of something. We will the seeing of 
 it that is, we look at it, inspect, examine it, &c., but we are uncon- 
 scious that, in order to this, certain movements of the visual organ 
 must take place. Here then is a palpable distinction between this 
 class of movements and the voluntary : for in the latter, whether we 
 know anything or not of the muscular instrumentality we are conscious 
 that our wish is to be executed by a movement either of the whole, or 
 of a part of a frame. 
 
 It is in this group of sensational motions that our actions are most 
 closely analogous to those which subserve the instincts of animals. 
 They are as blind, that is, as dependent on motives involving no fore- 
 sight, no prearrangement of our own. They are as perfect for we 
 neither learn them nor teach them they are the works of an art 
 nnteachable, untaught and they were as complete in our first parent, 
 when his eyes feasted on the natural glories of Eden, as in his latest 
 descendant inspecting the wonders of art in the Crystal Palace.
 
 MOVEMENTS OF SYMPATHY. 299 
 
 Another class of movements are those which give outward expres- 
 sion to the emotions. These also occur without any intention or 
 volition, whether they consist in the play of the features, or in the 
 gestures of the limbs ; joy, sorrow, anger, complacency, fear, courage, 
 confidence, distrust, speak in the quick turns and ever-shifting hues of 
 the eyes, in the varying surface of the cheek, in the expansile nostril, 
 the flexile lip, and the smooth or knitted brow. To this head also 
 belong those vocal movements which give utterance to particular feel- 
 ings, and are common to all ages of the human being, and to all 
 animals possessed of vocal organs. The screams of pain, the shrieks 
 of terror, the sigh of grief, the yell of resentment, the shout of joy, 
 are the instantaneous productions of these passions. The emotions 
 which approach nearer to intellectual conditions are also related with 
 actions altogether involuntary. Such are the perceptions of the 
 beautiful, the sublime, the wonderful, and the ludicrous. 
 
 These emotional movements are interesting in a point which has 
 not received much attention. The feelings prompt the movements ; 
 but it is no less true that the movements excite the feelings. And this, 
 I think, is the key to some of those curious phenomena often thrown 
 into the vague category of sympathy. A sudden panic in a multitude, 
 a burst of enthusiasm, will spread like lightning. The individuals 
 look round and see countenances and gestures expressive of a particular 
 emotion, of which, in the very process, they themselves become the 
 subjects. But you may say this is nothing but the instinctive reading 
 of nature's language of gestures and featural expression. The best 
 instance is in those anomalous states of the nervous system observed 
 in persons subjected to mesmeric processes. Here the individual par- 
 tially asleep, and with his will in abeyance, is at the mercy of any 
 association suggested from without : close his fists and put his arms 
 in a menacing attitude, and the emotions related with such movements 
 are excited.* Passive imitation comprehends movements very analo- 
 gous. Yawning is the expression of weariness. The sight of yawning 
 engenders the related feeling, and our muscles answer to it. 
 
 Our next class of movements would be those which are directly 
 
 The explanation of some of these strange mesmeric phenomena is admirably 
 set forth in Dr. Carpenter's " Human Physiology." The chapter on the Physiology 
 of the Nervous System in the last edition abounds in views highly original, and 
 stated and illustrated with wonderful perspicuity and affluence. The members of 
 this Institution should be proud of this production of one to whose voice these walla 
 have so often echoed.
 
 300 HABIT. 
 
 prompted (still without volition) by ideas ; meaning, by this term, 
 remembered sensations and thoughts as distinguished from those 
 objects of consciousness which are immediately brought from the outer 
 world. But as the best illustrations are derived from the group of 
 allied movements which we shall have to consider as pertaining more 
 particularly to the topics of this lecture that is, the secondarily 
 ideagenous I shall not now adduce them. I must content myself 
 with remarking that in various kinds of passive imitation we have 
 specimens both of sensational and of ideagenous movements. You 
 know how readily some persons contract a particular tone of voice 
 from association with others. Now as the individuals often wish to 
 avoid the infection, and yet do not escape it, the imitation is clearly 
 passive and mechanical the vocal movements which give the particular 
 tone respond instinctively to the sound which has been so often im- 
 pressed on the ear. But take a case of unintentional mimicry : you 
 must have observed that when any one is relating an anecdote 
 respecting the sayings or doings of an individual who has marked 
 personal peculiarities, the narrator's face, tones of voice, and gestures, 
 will represent the individual, though the operator has no intention of 
 so taking him off (as the phrase goes). The idea of the individual is 
 so vividly before him that he cannot help this imitation ; and conse- 
 quently his vocal muscles, those of featural expression, and those 
 which govern the gestures, the gait, carriage, and demeanour all 
 obey the mental impression, without the intervention of any volitional 
 action. 
 
 Let us now inquire into the distinction between automatic and 
 volitional action. We have seen that in the several groups compre- 
 hended under the former, motion succeeds to impressions, without 
 sensation or with sensation, to emotions, and to ideas ; but that there 
 is no indication in any of these instances of the self, the conscious ego, 
 being the originator of the movements. The common statement is, 
 that we will the action of certain muscles or groups of muscles, in 
 order to execute our purposes. But this is an incorrect statement ; for 
 it is obvious that in childhood, and indeed at all ages, unless we have 
 learned anatomy, we know nothing about the mechanism whereby we 
 move our limbs. Nay, after we have acquired such knowledge, we 
 cannot make use of it in the manner supposed. I cannot, by an effort 
 of my will, cause the contraction of that muscle which is the chief 
 agent in bending the elbow yet that muscle may, in morbid spasm,
 
 VOLITIONAL MOVEMENT. 301 
 
 be thrown into single and separate action. But, will the bending of 
 the arm, and it is done. In many of what we call voluntary move- 
 ments, we do not even will the action of particular limbs. Thus, in 
 learning to walk, the infant has no notion of limbs, of planting the 
 foot on the ground, keeping one leg stiff, rotating the body on the hip- 
 joint, &c. It only wishes to move to some place or person in view. 
 The motions ensue upon the desire, guided by the subjective sensations 
 of equilibrium, and by the objective sensations of vision. 
 
 The more we consider the subject, the more plain will it appear 
 that the exercise of volition consists in maintaining an association 
 between certain ideas, sensations, and motions ; the individual self 
 being conscious of its relation as the cause of those actions, and of its 
 power to increase, or lessen, or interrupt, or arrest them. If we wish 
 to analyse the process in any given case, we must be careful, for 
 reasons which will soon appear, to select one that is not an habitual or 
 mechanical action. In learning to play upon a musical instrument, 
 there are many movements to be acquired which are quite new, and 
 would, perhaps, never be required at any other conjuncture in our 
 lives. Or to take a less uncommon case. You have to lift the third 
 finger alone, while the others are kept flat on the keys of the piano. 
 The master tells you to practise it, and what do you do in practising 
 it ? You keep your mind on the end in view, the raising this finger 
 so reluctant to act alone, vehemently desiring to be successful, and 
 sooner or later, if you are free from any physical defect, your ambition 
 is realized. This little achievement seems a simple affair, but it is 
 really rather a complex one. It is not the mere lifting of the finger, 
 it is keeping the other two down ; for the finger in question is raised 
 by a muscle with tripartite tendon, of which two divisions go to the 
 second and third fingers, and therefore the tendency is for all three to 
 move together when the muscle is set in action. To prevent this, the 
 muscles that place the first two fingers are put into action so as to 
 antagonize the extensor and keep them down, while the action of that 
 extensor is allowed to tell on the third only. But of all this the 
 successful young lady is unconscious. She has only, by diligent appli- 
 cation of her mind, kept the object steadily in view, and a wonderful 
 association of muscles has done her bidding, she is unconscious how ; 
 she knows no more of the process than if she had called to her aid 
 some of the fairies or genii of her nursery fables. 
 
 The process in volitional movement is well illustrated by what
 
 302 HABIT. 
 
 takes place in imitating an instinctive action as in acting or forcing a 
 cough. We conceive the idea of the act of coughing with the will of 
 producing the act ; and this follows with more or less success according 
 to the vividness of the conception, and the readiness with which in the 
 individual ideagenous motions follow the idea. In one who has 
 histrionic genius there is, besides the higher mental faculties, a quick- 
 ness of response in the muscles to the ideas in the mind, as well as to 
 the emotions. 
 
 But perhaps this subject may be further elucidated by considering 
 what takes place in volitional efforts of thought. Much of our think- 
 ing is done mechanically automatically one thought suggesting 
 another by the laws of casual association. But what is implied in such 
 phrases as mental effort, application, undivided attention, painful 
 abstraction of thought ? There is a close analogy between this process 
 and muscular exertion. They are analogous in the circumstance that 
 they for the time engross our consciousness, that we feel a strain, an 
 exertion, which, but for some ulterior object, we should be inclined to 
 relax, and that after it is over we may be conscious of fatigue, or 
 exhaustion. 
 
 If you watch a child who, under the stimulus of emulation, or the 
 fear of punishment, has been laboriously conning a task but just 
 within the reach of its faculties, you may mark in the countenance, the 
 skin, the pulse, the whole demeanour, effects like those produced by 
 excess of bodily exercise. In both cases there has been an undue 
 consumption of force. Wherein consists this mental labour? It is> 
 the forcible bringing together and keeping together ideas or signs of 
 ideas which have no natural tendency to cohere, or are not helped to 
 cohere, by any other process than volitional effort. Take the instance 
 of a child's committing to memory a rule of grammar, the meaning of 
 which is altogether dark to him. I remember one, who before he was 
 five years old, sat down to learn off the Latin Accidence (prompted by 
 ambition an elder sister having just been initiated into its mysteries), 
 and he worked away at that luminous sentence " A noun is the name 
 of whatsoever thing or being we see or discourse of." Plain as this 
 seems to us, it was to him only a series of words which had to be im- 
 pressed on his mind, and remembered in the order in which they 
 followed each other. And how did he achieve this wonderful acquire- 
 ment? He read them over and over again sometimes in silence 
 and then those cabalistic verbal signs were associated as visual
 
 THE ACT OF ATTENTION. 303 
 
 remembrances. He read them aloud, and certain tones were associated 
 with them, reproductive of each other. The words contracted rela- 
 tionship, not only with the part of the page on which they stood, but 
 with the part of the room where he sat, with the furniture near him, 
 and with the emotions of which he was the subject, as hope and fear 
 fluctuated in his anxious ambitious bosom. 
 
 At last the lesson was learned ; that is, the words would come back 
 into the mind in the series in which they had been seen in the book. 
 They were no longer held together by mere sight and volitional atten- 
 tion, but the occurrence of the first brought the second, and the second 
 the third, because they had now very often co-existed, or proximally 
 succeeded each other ; and they had come to be associated with the 
 images of other visual things, the recurrence of which was easy, by 
 virtue of the liveliness of the original impressions. 
 
 To attend, or perform the mental act of attention, is to keep before 
 the consciousness, by an effort of the will, particular impressions or 
 trains of thought, or muscular actions. As to sensation, impressions 
 excite the consciousness, and become sensations when the consciousness 
 is not too closely associated with some other impressions or thought, 
 or when they are new or very vivid. It seems to be a law, that con- 
 sciousness does not link itself with any impression frequently repeated, 
 unless it be accompanied by a feeling of pleasure or pain, or associated 
 with some strong emotion, or with a train of thought associated with 
 such emotion (in common language, some interesting subject). The 
 first time you sit down in a room close to a railway, and hear the roar- 
 ing of a train, you think that it will arrest your attention every time it 
 occurs, but when the novelty has ceased you cease to hear it. It is not 
 associated with any emotion or interesting series of thought ; it is the 
 passing of a train and nothing more. Or suppose you are at a dinner 
 party. There is an incessant clatter of knives and forks and changing 
 dishes, tramp of servants, and hubbub of voices, and yet you hear 
 nothing but the words of your friend beside you, who is engaging you 
 in some interesting dialogue. The consciousness at that time coheres 
 to your friend's speech, fastened by the attractive force of present 
 emotions, and is not to be torn from it by mere sensory impressions, 
 unless these come reinforced by the divellent affinities of stronger 
 emotions, or unless a voice pitched in a higher key than the confused 
 Babel around you compels attention by its novelty. But the laborious 
 action of the will in attention consists in enforcing a coherence between
 
 304 HABIT. 
 
 the consciousness and certain objects which are not bound to it by 
 emotional interest. 
 
 But if there be labour or difficulty in this volitional effort, there is 
 still more in that which has for its object the conjunction of past sen- 
 sations or ideas to the exclusion of the objects of sense. Suppose a 
 young person shut up in a room and set to write down his notion of 
 the character of Alexander of Macedon, and suppose, if it be possible, 
 that the youth has never taken any interest in that magnificent hero : 
 to measure the efforts he has to make you must consider what objects 
 would be most likely to present themselves to his consciousness were he 
 not to endeavour to control his thoughts. The things in the room, 
 furniture, prints, &c., or should there be nothing of interest within, 
 then the view from the window ; escaped from these temptations he 
 has to resist the attractions of memory, some sport, or entertainment, 
 or curious book, or some prospective pleasure. He has to keep before 
 his consciousness the image of Alexander, and all the cluster of actions 
 and sayings associated with that idea through books, lectures, &c. No 
 difficult task ; but he has to arrange and parcel these recollections in 
 connection with certain qualities of Alexander's mind, and clothe them 
 in appropriate language. These connections are not so spontaneous as 
 the others, and require more volitional effort. 
 
 The effort in recollection consists in detaining before the conscious- 
 ness some idea about which the wished for ideas will cluster by 
 association. We cannot will their reproduction immediately, for, were 
 they objects of volition, they would already be in the presence of the 
 mind, and therefore need no summons. Do I wish to remember the 
 name of some person whose image is in my mind's eye ? I keep it 
 there ; my thoughts about him take the forms of place and time, 
 each of these bringing a large cluster of associations, to some one or 
 more of which the name so adheres that it at last is presented to my 
 consciousness. 
 
 There is a great difference in the facility with which ideas are pre- 
 sented to the consciousness and that by which they are detained. 
 Conjunction between ideas and the consciousness is greatly assisted by 
 the emotions. An illustration will bring this before you immediately. 
 The first time you gathered a violet you were in company with a friend. 
 Long years afterwards you come into a room perfumed with violets 
 which you do not see. The fragrance recalls the flower, its size, colour, 
 form, &c. Those perceptions co-existed in the first instance. The
 
 MUSCULAR ACTION AND CONSCIOUSNESS. 305 
 
 presence of the one has recalled the rest by the mere law of co-existence. 
 The same law brings before your mind at the same time the friend who 
 was with you ; but he is associated with so many emotions that his 
 image remains long after the violets and their perfume have faded from 
 your sense and memory. Nay, you are so occupied with those 
 remembrances that you may fall into a fit of abstraction, that is, be 
 unconscious of anything but the ideas and sentiments which have thus 
 been summoned to your consciousness. Thus you see the ideas and 
 remembrances associated with emotions are not only before the con- 
 sciousness, but are detained there ; while those remembered sensations 
 which had no other connection than that of co-existence and succession, 
 passed away as soon as they appeared. 
 
 These remarks on attention will enable us to return to volitional 
 motion. The will compels a conjunction between the idea of the 
 movement to be executed and our consciousness. To the idea of the 
 movement, conjoined with the wish to execute it, the nervo-muscular 
 apparatus responds sooner or later, if it be within the compass of our 
 organization. The action is much aided by the senses, and, in some 
 cases, particularly by the muscular-sense. Indeed there is no volun- 
 tary action of which sensation does not form a link in the series of 
 events. This is well seen in the act of prehension. In grasping a ball 
 for the first time, my fingers obey my wish to close upon it. The 
 degree of force with which they will close depends on the sensation 
 which the ball gives to the nerves of touch, and the feeling of resistance 
 afforded by the muscular sense, that is, the nerves of sensation in the 
 muscles. To hold the ball in my hand, I must either keep my atten- 
 tion fixed on the action, or the nerves of sensation must maintain the 
 muscular action. If these nerves be paralysed the action must be 
 guided by the attention and by sight. The following case, related by 
 Sir Charles Bell, is a good example : 
 
 " A mother, while nursing her infant, was seized with paralysis, attended with the 
 loss of muscular power on one side of the body, and the loss of sensibility on the 
 other. The surprising and, indeed, the alarming circumstance here was, that she 
 could hold her child to her bosom with the arm which retained muscular power, only 
 so long as she looked at the infant. If surrounding objects withdrew her attention 
 from the state of her arm, the flexor muscles gradually relaxed, and the child was in 
 danger of falling." Bell on the Hand, p. 244. 
 
 These consensual changes have something secondarily, automatic or 
 reflex in their character, for although when I fix my attention on the 
 
 x
 
 306 HABIT. 
 
 action, I am conscious of a sensation ; yet when I am occupied with 
 other subjects, as in talking, I have not the sensations, and yet the 
 nerves of sensation are acting in concert with the nerves of motion, 
 and maintaining the action. The sensational has been converted into 
 a reflex action. 
 
 Next we may notice the connection between volitional action and 
 sensation in the process of speaking or singing. We need not go back 
 to babyhood, though the study of it is most interesting ; but we will 
 tax our mature consciousness for the supply of information on this 
 subject. I am learning a new language. I wish to acquire the pro- 
 nunciation of a new sound say a German guttural. It is a volitional 
 effort. I hear the sound I fix my consciousness upon it ; my vocal 
 muscles, after a few trials, produce it. After a time no effort of volition 
 is needful. Certain letters associated with the first hearing of the sound 
 suggest the idea of the sound, and this the muscular action. The 
 action of the muscles of the voice clearly, then, belongs to the sensa- 
 tional group. 
 
 Strictly volitional movements are those which are objects of mental 
 attention, combined with the wish to execute them, and which are not 
 performed but under such circumstances. They are thus distinguished 
 from actions which, though coinciding with, and controllable by our 
 will, are originated and maintained by processes independent of this 
 mental principle. 
 
 We have now to inquire how these volitional movements, after a 
 time, pass into the category of instinctive or automatic actions. In 
 fact we are entering the domain of Habit a field which, though appro- 
 priated especially to this discourse, we have had to approach by a 
 circuitous and, I fear, tedious avenue. 
 
 Habitual motions are those which have been transmuted from 
 volitional to instinctive, which have become secondarily automatic, 
 which from having been compounded of will, idea, and sensation, have 
 become merely sensational, and perhaps, even in some cases, purely 
 reflex. The ego the consciousness, which was the first mover, has 
 been able to leave the transaction to its subordinate agents, while it is 
 occupied with other actions, or with sensations and thoughts requiring 
 its undivided attention. Of these many have been established in early 
 life. In standing and walking we have examples of complicated series of 
 muscular actions guided by the sensation of equilibrium, and becoming 
 ultimately all but reflex, though originally prompted by the will. That
 
 HABITUAL ACTIONS. 307 
 
 the will is originally concerned we see, not only by our observation of 
 children learning to stand or walk, but also in adults in whom the 
 apparatus has been weakened by illness or old age, and in whom the 
 mechanism is no longer so self-acting as not to require that mental 
 attention to the several stages of the process, in which volitional action 
 consists. 
 
 Speech is another of the habitual or secondary automatic actions. 
 In this process there is perception of sound as connected with some 
 object of sight (as in the naming of a thing) and the wish to imitate 
 the sound. The action of the vocal muscles is preceded by sensation, 
 idea, and volition. But after the habit of speaking has been acquired, 
 it becomes purely sensational or ideagenous without intervening volition, 
 and is allied to the instincts. 
 
 I here take the liberty of quoting from a paper which I published 
 many years ago : 
 
 " The articulation of every word was once, perhaps, the result of effort, a volun- 
 tary exertion of the vocal organ to imitate a sound produced hy another. But now 
 it is enough for the word to occur to the mind, and the pronunciation follows, without 
 any intermediate volition, merely because the idea and the action have been accustomed 
 to the relation of antecedence and consequence. 
 
 "Again : I may use some word which I not only did not intend, but which I 
 would much rather have avoided, as it may be personally offensive to the individual 
 with whom I am conversing. This word, in all probability, will be found to be 
 similar in sound to that which was present in my mind, but which was not expressed 
 fcy my voice. The word was the product of a certain aggregation or series of vocal 
 movements, which followed some initial movement common to it, and to that other 
 series which properly belonged to the idea in the mind. This we conceive to be the 
 meaning of what is commonly called a lapsus lingua;, and is very different from a 
 malapropism : the latter is a mistake of the mind, the former is a mistake of the 
 muscles. A similar error not unfrequently occurs in writing. A perfect master of 
 orthography may commit a mistake of this kind ; he may write, for instance, the 
 adverb there, though the pronoun was in his mind, merely from an irregularity of 
 muscular succession. The tracing of a word on paper is the result of a particular 
 set of muscular movements ; but words of very different meanings may have very 
 similar sets, and even initially identical, as in the instance just mentioned ; and 
 hence the mistake arises. We have heard persons say that a bad pen would make 
 them mis-spell ; in such a case, the impediment offered by the pen causes an irregu- 
 larity of the succession of the movements. But it may be asked, how is it that we 
 sometimes utter or write a word no less dissimilar in sound and in symbolical 
 characters than foreign to the subject discoursed of? The causation in this case is 
 different ; the error exists in the mind, and arises from our being occupied with more 
 than one series of ideas; in which case an accidental exchange takes place between 
 the series communicated and that which is retained. To a person engaged in writing
 
 308 HABIT. 
 
 when others are talking around him, the accident is very likely to happen. Some 
 word makes a particular impression on his mind and diverts him a moment from his 
 previous train of thought; but his muscles continue to act, and follow the impulse 
 of the word in question, as of any other that passes through his mind, and germane 
 to the matter in hand. 
 
 " From what has been said, then, it is deducible that there are motions imme- 
 diately consequent on ideas, in the same manner as others consequent on sensation* 
 and emotions; but we have not arranged the former in a separate class, because we 
 are not aware of any evidence that ideas assume the relation of proximate causes to 
 motions, except under the operation of the general law or principle which we have 
 been engaged in illustrating, while sensations and emotions, on the contrary, mani- 
 festly produce their appropriate actions, without any reference whatever either to 
 previous association or succession." Relation* of Mind and Muscle. 
 
 Such actions as standing, walking, speaking and handling, are the 
 most primitive arts of life, belonging to man as a species, and con- 
 templated as essential parts of his active existence, without which, 
 indeed, he would be wanting in the outward characteristics of humanity. 
 They correspond to actions which in the lower animals are all but 
 coeval with birth, or which only require the complete development of 
 the organism rather than any process of education. The young kid 
 walks on the day of its birth. The bird does not fly when just out of 
 its shell, because its wings are imperfect. 
 
 In these primitive arts, then, belonging to the whole race, there is 
 a more ready and rapid conversion of volition into habit or instinct 
 than in others which I now proceed to notice. These are the arts 
 acquired by long education and practice, and which belong either to 
 individual man originating them, or to individual man affected by his 
 fellows. They are the manual, the domestic, the social, the fine arts. 
 In all these arts the limbs have to respond to and work out an idea ; 
 and the connection must be frequently established and repeated by 
 volitional efforts before the art becomes a habit. And yet we shall see 
 here, again, the power of habit, and how, when it is more early 
 acquired, it becomes allied to an instinct or an inspiration. 
 
 It is in these arts, indeed, that we may discover some of the most 
 marked examples of habit, recurring to that character of the principle 
 which we gave at the onset of this discourse, as the conversion of the 
 casual or temporary into the fixed or permanent. For as the muscular 
 actions have been engendered to meet circumstances which are not 
 necessary to the life and endowments of the species ; in other words, to 
 subserve wants and answer to ideas which have arisen under particular
 
 HABITUAL ACTIONS. 309 
 
 circumstances or in particular minds, so the conversion of them into 
 actions that may occur without the maintenance of volitional supervision, 
 illustrates very strongly the dominion of habit. 
 
 Such combinations of muscular actions as are effected in the 
 sleight-of-hand tricks of a juggler, or in the scarcely less surprising 
 dexterities of an accomplished player on the violin, may never before 
 have transpired, and may never again transpire in any son of Adam, 
 and yet in that individual they may have been so frequently produced, 
 (i.e., the will may have so often effected a junction between the idea, 
 the sensations, and the motions,) that the succession is maintained 
 without any mental attention. The player may talk to you while his 
 hand is bringing out the music ; one note suggests the next which has 
 so often proximally succeeded to it, and with it comes the nervo- 
 muscular action according to the principle of association which we 
 have before adverted to. But in cases of this kind we may sometimes 
 in our analysis fail to discover any link formed of an idea or a remem- 
 bered sensation. Thus, one may begin to whistle without the faintest 
 notion of what tune the muscles of the mouth and cheek will modulate. 
 The muscular actions aggregate themselves into combinations and 
 series unprompted by an idea, unguided by the will, nay, unsuggested 
 by a sensation (for the motion precedes the note evolved), and arranged 
 solely by the law of previous co-existence and proximal succession, 
 repeated an adequate number of times. They are mechanical, auto- 
 matic, reflex. Originally, perhaps, the order of events had been 
 remembered ; musical sounds associated with certain words. The 
 recurrence of the words brought the sounds, to which the vocal move- 
 ment responded. But now the first movement sends an impression to 
 the reflex centres, and these maintain the series independently of the 
 sensational, ideagenous, and volitional centres. It is like the running 
 off of a musical machine, except that the series may be deranged at 
 any moment by an idea or emotion or sensation. Therefore it is most 
 likely to be safe from interruption when the mind is in that blank con- 
 dition to which the most sentient, sentimental, and intellectual are 
 sometimes subject. Therefore there is a physiological meaning in the 
 
 old line : 
 
 " He -whistled as he went for want of thought." 
 
 The habitual or secondarily automatic actions bear resemblance to 
 the primarily automatic in the circumstance that when once established 
 .they are liable to derangement rather than assisted by mental attention.
 
 310 HABIT. 
 
 Fix your mind on the process of breathing, and it becomes laborious 
 or irregular, think of the act of swallowing while you are perform- 
 ing it, as in taking a pill, and the action becomes spasmodic, convulsive, 
 abortive. In like manner if you attend to your walking as you pass 
 from one side of a drawing-room to another, it is ten to one but that 
 your gait and carriage will be a series of jerking, swaying, rolling 
 motions, in short, awkward, constrained, ungraceful. Something in 
 such cases must be set down to emotional causes, such as the disturb- 
 ing influence of anxiety. But from what we remarked before, you- 
 may be prepared to admit that the act of volitional attention is closely 
 allied to emotional processes. And it will be found that in certain of 
 the secondarily automatic mental operations, this disturbing influence is 
 still more easily traceable. 
 
 The readiness with which these habitual movements are established, 
 as I have already mentioned incidentally, is closely allied to natural 
 aptitude or talent. It is far beyond dispute, that however great may 
 be the power of education and practice, yet that men differ immensely 
 from each other in original capability for particular arts. Men are 
 lorn artizans and artists, as well as poets ; for the former, whatever 
 may be the mental requirements, there must, at all events, be an apt- 
 ness of hand, a quickness of response in the muscles to the ideas in 
 the mind a readiness for the establishment of those series, and aggre- 
 gations of complex co-ordinate movements, which, for their first 
 institution require the repetition of volitional efforts, but which in one 
 man require almost an indefinite number of repetitions, while in. 
 another a very few will suffice to convert them into habits. This, 
 however (natural dexterity), is but the bare mechanical substratum of 
 skill and art. Yet without it a man cannot excel, though his mental 
 capability for the higher processes in the art be of transcendent excel- 
 lence. He may have the most nimble apprehension, a memory the 
 most retentive and accessible, the most refined and delicate sense of the 
 beautiful, a power of rapidly combining and abstracting those qualities 
 in natural objects, which, when reproduced, will faithfully and vividly 
 represent the originals, an instinctive knowledge of that subtle sym- 
 bolism whereby objects are made to evoke in other minds those 
 sentiments which were inspired in the artist as he looked on nature, 
 and with all this, a noble desire to make the sesthetical gratification 
 minister, as their natural handmaid, to Virtue and Religion ; he may 
 have all these, and many more qualities necessary for the accomplished
 
 HABITUAL ACTIONS. 311 
 
 artist, and yet they may only serve him for the appreciation of the 
 achievements of others, not because he wants " the vision and the 
 faculty divine," but because the hand is not a defty servant of his 
 thought. But when, indeed, the hand and the eye and the mind do 
 come together, each with the highest qualities, compass, quickness, 
 and co-ordination, then we have a Phidias, a Michael Angelo, a 
 Kaffaelle. Many like instances might be adduced ; but I hasten to 
 remark, in connection with this department of our subject, what indeed 
 is well known to every one, that for the formation of many of those 
 habitual co-ordinate actions nothing is needed but frequency of 
 repetition. They argue no special fitness of organization (though, 
 indeed, even in them a natural cleverness may be discernible), and 
 merely instance the power of repetition. Such are the mechanical 
 processes of every-day life, the act of writing, the operations of the 
 toilet, the dinner-table, &c. 
 
 But here the question naturally occurs, why should mere repetition 
 dispense with volitional exertion ? To answer this fully would require 
 a long and abstruse discussion. I must content myself with a summary 
 statement of what seems to me to be the explanation of the fact. The 
 more the action of an organ is augmented the stronger it becomes, 
 and its nutrition increases. This is clearly seen in the development of 
 muscles called frequently into play. I would apply this fact by 
 analogy to the nervous centres. The different nervous centres in the 
 encephalon communicate with each other by commissural fibres. In 
 volitional movements, the action of the commissures between the sen- 
 sational or ideagenous centres and their related motor centres is excited 
 in the first instance by the will. But the repetition of more or fewer 
 of these incitements appear to suffice for the growth and development 
 of the commissure to a degree of strength and activity adequate to the 
 performance of its functions independently of the will. Thus the 
 volitional action is converted into a habit. 
 
 The abnormal habits are curious, and perhaps less easy of analysis. 
 They are those actions which subserve no apparent purpose, either as 
 to the functions of the whole system, or to the will, or the emotions, or 
 the ideas of the individual. What earthly end is answered by biting 
 the nails, twitching the air, twirling the thumbs, rubbing the hands, 
 kicking the heels, and various other singular and all but unaccount- 
 able human actions, which are designated in the vernacular as tricks
 
 312 HABIT. 
 
 or fidgets ? Why should a person under strong emotion exhibit such 
 peculiarities of deportment as are attributed to Sir Jacob Kilmansegg 
 on the morning of his daughter's christening ? 
 
 "And Sir Jacob, the father, strutted and bowed, 
 And smiled to himself and laughed aloud, 
 To think of his heiress and daughter 
 And then in his pockets he made a grope, 
 And then in the fulness of joy and hope, 
 Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap 
 
 In imperceptible water." 
 
 Why was it that when a certain great statesman in the House of 
 Commons was about to make a signal rhetorical effort, his friends 
 were advertized of it by his mechanically rattling his watch-chain and 
 seals for full half-an-hour before he rose? Why do little boys, in 
 saying their lessons, go through sundry mysterious operations of 
 buttoning and unbuttoning their jackets ; and why do gentlemen, 
 earnest in argumentation, wildly lay hands on the little implements of 
 a neighbouring lady's work-table, and turn them to strange uses on 
 the adjoining furniture ? There must be a law for facts so common, 
 and all but universal. 
 
 I believe that they are referable to two principles. One of them is 
 the provision made in the nervous system for the concurrence of mus- 
 cular action with deep thought and strong emotion. Consider how 
 nearly all the emotions have their natural alliance (in the form of 
 expression) with certain muscular actions in the features and the 
 limbs, and how very important these are in the mutual communication 
 of men in early states of society. Consider also how often some form 
 of muscular action goes with thought ; and again how common it is 
 to accompany speech with gesticulation ; and how in the more impor- 
 tant acts of life thought and motion are going on together. In literary 
 composition the action of writing is a natural accompaniment. If a 
 man dictates it is ten to one but he will walk about the room while 
 doing so, because it is natural for some muscular action to accompany 
 profound thought. 
 
 But you may say that these considerations do not help us out of the 
 difficulty. For speech and gesticulation being the accompaniments of 
 thought and emotion, why should we add such unmeaning muscular 
 actions as those which have been adverted to ? We come then to the 
 other principle, which is, that the motor centres are apt to elaborate
 
 IRREGULAR MUSCULAR ACTIONS. 313 
 
 more force than is required, and which, must be disposed of in some 
 way. Now that there is such a thing as nerve-force cannot be doubted. 
 We talk of force of attraction, of chemical force, of motive force, of 
 -electric force ; and though none of these forces can be produced as 
 entities, and may be only summary expressions of certain chains of 
 phenomena considered in their causative order, there is as much 
 reason for using the term nerve-force as any of the others. It is that 
 principle of power which, generated in nervous tissue by virtue of the 
 changes which this substance undergoes in its ultimate molecular 
 nutrition (in the higher animals under the operation of blood- 
 changes), stands in the relation of proximate cause to motion, sensation, 
 and the material ministrations of thought. The common sense or 
 consciousness of mankind attains to a very near recognition of this 
 power, when it assigns the buoyant movements of childhood to an 
 excess of vitality, and when a man says that he feels such a surplus of 
 irritability or irritation in his system that he takes active exercise to 
 get rid of it. We have seen how the nervous centres are brought into 
 action simultaneously and co-ordinately. Now if there be great excite- 
 ment in one (excitement means exalted vital action), there will, to a 
 certain extent, be the same in others, more especially in those related. 
 If the emotional centres are strongly excited, there will be a large 
 elaboration of force in the motor centres, some of which force may be 
 discharged in the appropriate featural expressions and gestures ; but 
 to expend the whole of it, strange movements and antics will very 
 probably be performed. To let these have free play is a great relief to 
 many persons, while to restrain them requires great self-command and 
 discipline. 
 
 In sleep, although the centres of sensation are quiescent, there is 
 often too much activity in the motional centres, and then the nerve- 
 force goes off in a variety of irregular muscular actions, such as kicking, 
 stretching, change of position, tossing off the bed-clothes, &c. 
 
 In sensation, in motion, and in thought, nerve-force is generated 
 and consumed. The fatigue, nay the absolute bodily exhaustion, 
 induced by excess in any of these functions is a proof of it. In persons 
 of the nervous temperament there is at all times an amount of nervous 
 energy produced beyond what is absolutely required for the per- 
 formance of the normal functions of the brain. Hence it is in these 
 persons that we see the most striking instances of the tricks which we
 
 314 HABIT. 
 
 are now considering. Very remarkable is the tendency in some 
 children. They wink their eyes, make strange contortions in their 
 limbs, change their posture, shift the weight of the body from one 
 foot to the other incessantly when answering the slightest question, 
 and all from the excess of motor nerve-force generated concurrently 
 with the little mental excitement. These movements sometimes occur 
 in particular sets of muscles in preference to others, and then they are 
 called habits. 
 
 But I cannot leave this part of the subject without remarking that 
 there is good reason for the caution which has often been given, not to 
 interfere too much with these nervous habits ; for they are sometimes 
 salutary outlets for morbid irritation. I know a young lady who, when 
 her mind was unusually interested, had a habit of rubbing her fore- 
 head, and if this were prevented, either by moral or mechanical means, 
 it seldom failed to induce threatenings of serious disorder in the brain. 
 There are certain kinds of convulsive seizures which may be con- 
 sidered as discharges of nerve-force, like those of electric jars highly 
 charged. Pardon me for giving you one more practical instance : 
 There are some persons whose brains, when highly excited, say, by 
 a public entertainment, or an interesting conversation or argument, or 
 even by having fallen into some engrossing train of thought, cannot 
 pass readily into the normal condition. The elaboration of nerve-force 
 continues. If they retire to rest they cannot sleep ; they go on think- 
 ing, and feeling, and tossing about, or vividly dreaming, when they 
 ought to be " mere clods of the valley." Now the best thing to prevent 
 this is to take active muscular exercise before retiring, whereby the 
 superabundant force is used up. 
 
 HABIT AS TO SENSATION. 
 
 On first considering the effects of habit in connection with sensa- 
 tion it would seem to be the reverse of what occurs in connection with 
 motion. Habit, instead of increasing seems to lessen sensation. We 
 speak of becoming too habituated to things to feel them. The contact 
 of clothes with our skin is habitually disregarded, though, had the 
 investiture been a new ceremony, we should not be able to forget them 
 for an instant during the day. We sit in a room reading or talking 
 while a time-piece, to the sound of which we are accustomed, strikes
 
 HABIT AS TO SENSATION. 315 
 
 the hours and the quarters, without hearing it. The inhabitants of 
 miserable tenements in the worst parts of our towns (where sanitary 
 matters are neglected to a degree that is a disgrace to civilization, and 
 a dishonour to Christianity,) live unconscious of odours which strike 
 those who have not been inured to this wretchedness with disgust and 
 terror. The " common light of day " gives us no subjective sensation, 
 no feeling in our eyes, unless we have been unusually excluded from 
 it for a long time, and then it may be blinding. 
 
 After considering such facts as these, we remember on the other 
 hand that education is known to quicken the senses, that the North 
 American Indian is said by habit to see and hear sights and sounds 
 which escape his more civilized brethren ; and that the purchaser of 
 tea can try forty or fifty sample-cups in succession, and make his selec- 
 tion of the best flavours with unerring accuracy ; and that wine-tasters 
 can, by practice, attain to the delicacy of discrimination which charac- 
 terized those notable rivals vouched for by Sancho Panza, of whom, as 
 you remember, one declared that the wine tasted of iron, and the other 
 of leather, and each of whom was found to be correct when the cask 
 had been drained to the bottom : for there lay an old cellar-key, with 
 a thong attached to it. 
 
 These two sets of facts seem at first sight to contradict each other, 
 but they do not really do so. We have seen that habit in reference to 
 motion strengthens and gives independent power to a connection estab- 
 blished in the first instance by volition. It will be found to be the 
 same in sensation. 
 
 What is the process in sensation ? An impression is made on a 
 sentient nerve, and conveyed by it to the sensory ganglia, where it 
 becomes connected with the Ego, and is then, and not till then, a 
 sensation. 
 
 We have already been speaking of attention, and shown that 
 impressions are presented to the consciousness by virtue of their novelty 
 or vividness, and are detained or dismissed according as they are asso- 
 ciated or not with emotions, or compulsorily associated by the will. It 
 appears to be a law that a repeated impression ceases to become a 
 sensatian when its novelty ceases. A different degree of vividness is 
 in fact a new impression, and therefore comes under the law. The 
 final cause of this arrangement is obvious. Were we at the mercy of 
 all the impressions which axe perpetually made upon us, were they all
 
 316 HABIT. 
 
 converted into sensations, connected thought would be impossible. But 
 the impression may have nothing of novelty, and yet its recurrence 
 will always be followed by sensation, because it has been associated 
 with an emotion. This effect of association is strikingly exemplified in 
 sleep. Impressions of the most violent kind may be made, and yet the 
 sleeper will not feel them if he has been accustomed to them, and not 
 had them connected in his mind with some subject of interest. It is 
 told by Dr. Carpenter, of a great naval officer, that he could sleep 
 through the loudest noises on ship-board, but if any one whispered in 
 his ear the word signal he was awake in an instant. So I know the 
 case of a lady who sleeps profoundly during ordinary noises, but if her 
 relative who is near her makes in breathing a sound which she has often 
 known to be the precursor of an attack of illness, she wakes imme- 
 diately. So also with the tick of an alarum. 
 
 In the sharpening of the senses by education and training, we 
 again see the influence of the emotions, or of ideas associated with 
 emotions. We look and listen, that is, we attend to sights and sounds, 
 because there is an expectation of good to be received, or a fear of 
 evil to be averted. Again we are said to acquire the habit of attending 
 to certain classes of sensations. Here the emotional interest is more 
 remote. The objects of sensation may be uninteresting, but we exert 
 our volition to compel a coherence between the impressions and the 
 consciousness ; and the connection having been often repeated, and so 
 once established, becomes permanent ; the volitional becomes automatic. 
 Habit supplants the will ; and thus we have another illustration that 
 the influence of this principle is exerted by virtue of association. 
 
 Habit would thus seem the offspring and afterwards the successor 
 and representative of volition. But what is meant by a habit of 
 inattention, a listless habit ? Thus a person may fall into the habit of 
 sitting at church and not listening to the service or the sermon. The 
 use of the word in this manner is a metonymy. It is not the habit of 
 not attending, but the habit of attending to your own thoughts in pre- 
 ference to those of the clergyman. 
 
 Everywhere in this subject we fall back on the principle of 
 association. Everything in this world is interesting, or important, or 
 influential, according as it is related with other things. 
 
 The repetition of volitional impulses gives increased strength to the 
 related centres of motion, because these centres become active. The
 
 HABIT AS TO THOUGHT. 317 
 
 repetition of impressions which are not taken up by the emotions or 
 the will, and do not pass into sensations, will come to nothing. It is 
 not that habit deadens the sensibility to the repeated impressions, but 
 that the impressions ceasing to be linked with the emotions and the 
 will, having in fact no associations with any thing else in the mental 
 life, die away ; or, indeed, never arrive at any thing but an abortive 
 existence. 
 
 HABIT AS TO THOUGHT. 
 
 In the remarks preliminary to our consideration of volitional 
 motion, I spoke of some of those mental processes which are enforced 
 by the will in efforts of memory. There are others to which I can but 
 very briefly advert, with a view to the prosecution of our immediate 
 subject. Such is the compulsory contemplation of phenomena in a 
 certain order or arrangement when we reason, whether inductively 
 or deductively, or when we arrange, according to a certain shape or 
 plan, those clusters of ideas and emotions which belong to fancy and 
 imagination. 
 
 Congeries of ideas, or trains of thought, orignally associated or 
 marshalled by volition, may, like the volitional movements, become 
 automatic. The memory of compositions, or of narratives, or of 
 arguments, once attained by efforts of the will, becomes automatic. 
 Recollection passes in remembrance. Nay, like the analogous move- 
 ments, it is apt to be deranged by mental attention. How often does 
 a person find that the more he tries to remember something, the more 
 he is baffled. He gives it up, talks of something else, and that which 
 had been sought for in vain comes unbidden. The automatic process 
 of association went on better when the consciousness was not fixed 
 upon it. 
 
 Arithmetical calculations illustrate this principle. That 2 and 3 
 make 5, is at first committed to the memory by means of the will : 
 after a few repetitions of these three figures the combination of the 
 two first will bring the third mechanically, that is, 3 will add itself to 
 2, and bring 5 in its train, and so on with a long column of figures. 
 Mr. Dugald Stewart adduces the case of an expert accountant running 
 his eyes up a column of figures and arriving at the sum total, uncon- 
 scious of the intermediate mental acts, as an instance of a succession 
 of efforts of attention, so rapid as to have been forgotten. But there 
 seems to me no need of presuming that of which there is no proof.
 
 318 HABIT. 
 
 The numbers seen have so often been linked with their equivalents in 
 the memory, that the latter recur passively and mechanically. Thus 
 in consequence of long use and practice 2 and 3 
 cannot but suggest the idea 5, and 5 meeting 7 
 brings 12, and 12 meeting 6 brings 18, and with 
 18 added to 9, 27 links itself, and so on. 
 
 Thus the visual and the mental trains of figures 
 interchange without any effort. 
 
 These associations have so often been compelled, 
 that they now recur by necesssity. It is just as 
 with the player on an instrument ; the impulses 
 in the centre of motion so often associated with 39 
 the notes of music on the paper come without 
 attention, though at one time their co-ordination was only effected by 
 dint of the most laborious attention. 
 
 In reasoning, a like automatic process is traceable. The ergo fastens 
 itself without effort to the premisses. The conclusion is self-evolved 
 from the major premiss. 
 
 And the self-evolution of thought may be traced much further. 
 Ideas grow out of ideas, without our consciousness of the various 
 stages of their mysterious genesis. The new production suddenly 
 blossoms forth to the astonishment of its possessor, who finds himself 
 all but unawares the maker of a grand discovery. Or, to vary the 
 illustration, take the case of a writer of works of imagination. His 
 mind has been stored with a vast assemblage of images, scenes, senti- 
 ments, and characters. In some auspicious moment, and sometimes 
 unexpectedly, the scheme of a poem or fable unfolds itself before his 
 mental eye ; it is as if his mind up to that time had held all the 
 scenes, incidents, characters and similies in a state of solution, and then 
 by a happy conjunction of outward and inward agencies, the several 
 elements of thought attach themselves to each other by their several 
 elective affinities, and crystallize into their appropriate shapes and 
 colours of beauty and grandeur.* 
 
 The secondarily automatic processes of thought, induced by habit, 
 
 * The whole suhject of the automatic action of the brain in intellectual processes 
 is treated with great anility and originality in Dr. Carpenter's Chapter (in the Cere- 
 brum and its Functions (" Principles of Human Physiology," fourth edition). The 
 reilex action of the brain with reference to motion had previously been expounded 
 in a highly ingenious paper by Dr. Laycock, read before the British Association, 
 September^ 1844.
 
 BELIEFS AND PREJUDICES. 319 
 
 closely resemble those -which are instinctive. To the latter class belong 
 the intuitive beliefs. To believe the information of our senses, as that 
 the sun moves, is an instinct. Such also is the expectation of like 
 consequents from like antecedents, or cause and effect. Such also is 
 the confident belief in the existence of outward things the separation 
 of the ego and, non-ego. Such also the reference of the existence of 
 things and of ourselves to an unseen Power. These, like other 
 instincts, are variously susceptible of modification from subsequent 
 experience. But in all these cases the ideas have not been brought 
 together by volitional efforts ; they have an innate tendency to cohere. 
 Indeed, they can hardly occur separately. The existence of the one 
 necessarily involves that of the other. They, in fact, grow together. 
 But the ideas which have only been casually clustered, or knit together 
 by the workmanship of volition, may ultimately cohere as strongly. 
 The force of habit will thus equal that of instinct ; a faulty train of 
 reasoning may acquire the strength of an original instinctive percep- 
 tion ; an oft-told lie becomes a truth, and a superstition may be as 
 hard to break asunder as the simplest and most primitive religion. 
 Education thus vies with intuition, and habit becomes second nature. 
 
 These habits of thought, like habits of action, when once acquired 
 are not easily discontinued. They are like grooves in which the mind 
 has been accustomed to slide ; if well contrived and fitted, and in a 
 right direction, they are of incalculable value. If not, they are 
 injurious, they prevent the mind from moving in better ordered and 
 more truthward tracks. In the progress of life it becomes more and 
 more difficult to alter our habits. The grooves have worn deeper and 
 deeper, and the volition is less and less willing to trace or carve new 
 ones. It is ridiculous, I should better say it is mortifying to human 
 nature to watch the awkward and futile efforts of a mind to throw off 
 its long formed habits. Take it out of these prepossessions, and pre- 
 judices, and bigotries, and how uneasy and jolting are its movements ! 
 for such habits are ruts rather than grooves, which though they allow 
 no rapid motion of the heavy carriage that follows them yet cannot be 
 escaped. In attempting to quarter the road the movements are made 
 without confidence, and the wheels are perpetually threatening to slip 
 into the old tracks with a crash that endangers the safety of the whole 
 vehicle. 
 
 It would be interesting, but time will not allow us, to pass on to an 
 investigation of habit in reference to the emotions and moral senti-
 
 320 HABIT. 
 
 ments. But the same law will be found to hold good in that department 
 as in those which we have so imperfectly treated. 
 
 I must conclude with a few words on i\e final cause of habit. 
 As to habits of action, it is obvious that the great use they serve 
 is the economy of time. What would man have accomplished by the 
 end of his life had it been needful for him to attend to his movements 
 in standing, walking, and using his hands and fingers ? What pro- 
 gress would thought make were speakers to be thinking of the sounds 
 they utter, and to be consciously directing and adjusting their vocal 
 apparatus ? And where would be the literature of the world were the 
 mind compelled to pass from its sublime contemplations to the muscular 
 actions which guide the movements of the pen ? But the more we 
 consider the subject, whether as to the development of those actions 
 which characterize the species, or as to those acquired accomplishments 
 and dexterities which range from the humblest handicrafts to the 
 loftiest triumphs of the imaginative arts, the more we shall be struck 
 by the gradually increasing subordination and subjugation of the 
 mechanical processes to the more exalted faculties of the mind. 
 
 This view would at first, perhaps, make us inquire whether, as these 
 volitional movements which we have been considering ultimately become 
 automatic, it would not have enlarged the capacities of man, had they 
 legun as instincts, just as some of them really are found in the lower 
 animals, instead of going through so long a process of evolution and 
 education ? A foolish question, as every question must be, -which 
 proposes an arrangement of events different from what is obviously a 
 part of the plan of God's universe. Take away the struggling striving 
 will even from these corporeal actions ; remove effort, resolution, the 
 conscious initiation of action, perseverance, training, and education, 
 and what is human life reduced to ? Gigantic as man's powers 
 become, he was not intended to spring from the earth in their full 
 equipment. Survey him in his infancy, childhood, youth, adolescence, 
 and manhood, and while you become convinced that his gradual 
 acquirements bring him a multitude of enjoyments, as well as difficul- 
 ties and disasters, you cannot but see that what is evolving in him 
 bears a strict correlation to the powers, emotions, sentiments and 
 virtuous actions of those, who having arrived at the maturity of their 
 powers, are to help him, to whom he is bound, as they to him, by ties 
 which make the affinities of the human family infinitely transcend the 
 transitory parental instincts and gregarious associations of the lower
 
 HABIT COMPATIBLE WITH FREE-WILL. 321 
 
 animals ; for they live and grow up almost as they were born, devoid 
 of progress, not one whit wiser or more skilful than the first pair that 
 issued from Noah's ark, living for themselves only, or only under a 
 blind impulse providing for another succession. But man having con- 
 sciously and with pain and labour and peril acquired his endowments, 
 lives them over again by teaching them to his offspring ; and apart 
 from that happier existence to which he knows that he is destined in 
 other worlds, feels that here too he has a kind of immortality ; that as 
 he has inherited knowledge, and virtue, and power, he too has to 
 transmit them ; that his life and its achievements have a mortal 
 metempsychosis, a translation into the enlarging attributes and 
 brightening destinies of his children, and of unborn generations, and 
 in the production of works which, like Milton, he knows that posterity 
 will not willingly let die, and in the elaboration of systems which, like 
 Bacon, he bequeaths with his fame to the next ages ; in this realizing 
 anticipation of a posthumous renown he survives his own death, 
 passing by his living consciousness far beyond the narrow bounds 
 affixed to his mere corporeal duration. 
 
 But while habit, as we have seen, is so useful in abridging labour, 
 in economizing time, in preserving order, and method, and coherence 
 in our thoughts, and in making the practice of virtue and religion 
 easier to us, still it imposes upon us no inevitable compulsion. It is 
 not the blind necessity of an instinct. It is our own fault if we are 
 enslaved instead of being merely assisted by habit. Human agency 
 ought to be able to assert its freedom in this as in every other depart- 
 ment of thought and action. The habit should be like a steed, so well 
 broken that though the will may have thrown the reins on its neck, 
 while otherwise occupied, it can in a moment gather them up and 
 come to a sudden halt. 
 
 Habit, we have seen, is at once the product, and the sign of previous 
 volition. And though in certain muscular actions belonging to the 
 species it closely resembles instinct, yet as to the thoughts and actions 
 of individual men it is widely different. For as the will of every man 
 has its own peculiar form and colour, making an important part of his 
 individuality, so his habits will have their own character and freedom 
 of growth. Those who are attached to him will regard with partiality 
 the very habits which have grown out of his peculiarities. The singu- 
 larity of his gestures, the eccentricities of his gait, carriage, and 
 demeanour, the oddity of his featural expression, the tone of his voice, 
 
 Y
 
 322 HABIT. 
 
 his ways and his whims, his fancies and his philosophies, his pre- 
 dilections and prejudices, the whole complexion of his life, and the 
 whole colour of his conduct his goings out and his comings in, his 
 risings up and his lyings down, all are valued, because they give us 
 more vividly the express image of him who is endeared to us for his 
 own individual sake. 
 
 But while there is the utmost latitude for the formation and the 
 relinquishment of habit according to the will and humour of the indi- 
 vidual, the habit which has grown out of a strong character will 
 inevitably impress itself on others. A strong character does not depend 
 on the intellect, but on the original strength of the will, and on the 
 habits which it has originated. It is one whose actions have sprung 
 out of its own individual will. The very limitation of the intellectual 
 vision may strengthen the volition by the repetition of its objects and 
 by the iteration of its correlative actions. This self-possessed, self- 
 contained, self-originating power, is sure to affect others. It is a new 
 centre of motion to those who are ever ready to derive their impulses 
 from without, rather than from their own life. 
 
 Thus we see the two elements in social life antagonizing each other, 
 and yet bringing out the most important results ; the potential 
 freedom of every individual and the unfelt compulsion of a passive 
 imitation. And were any argument needful beyond what has been so 
 often urged by moralists and divines as to the formation of habits 
 which may become so powerful either for good or evil, in the individual 
 character, it is to be found in the consideration that in our influence on 
 others we are responsible not only for what we directly do or directly 
 teach, but also for that insensible operation of our characters which, 
 in proportion as they are strengthened by habit, are in that same pro- 
 portion sustained in their capability of impressing and moulding to 
 their likeness, the wills, the affections, the thoughts, and the actions 
 of our fellow men. 
 
 While these sheets have been passing through the press, the 
 popular mind has been wonderfully excited and occupied by the Table- 
 movement. As this rage is likely to be even more ephemeral than 
 these pages, it may be worth while to record very briefly the pheno- 
 menon, and to offer what appears to be the rational explanation of it. 
 Three or four, or more persons, stand or sit round a table with their
 
 TABLE-TURNING. 323 
 
 fingers slightly resting upon it, the little fingers of each individual 
 resting on those of his neighbours. After patiently waiting in 
 expectation for fifteen or twenty minutes, rarely sooner, one of the 
 company observes that the table begins to move, and forthwith it either 
 moves in a rotatory or in a straightforward direction, according to the 
 shape of the table and the disposition of its legs ; and the operators 
 move with it. In one case which I have heard of, the table having 
 been rickety, and its top more mobile than its supports, the movement 
 consisted in a swaying backwards and forwards of the former part, 
 while the latter remained steadfast. 
 
 It will be inconsistent with the gravity of the future historian of 
 our era to depict the scenes of which this movement was the centre 
 else one could wish that posterity might not be defrauded of some 
 amusement, together with the satisfaction of a conscious superiority, 
 while contemplating this mania of their ancestors. Yet they would 
 scarcely believe that in many of the club-houses of London, comprising 
 among their members some of the most distinguished personages of 
 the country, might have been seen groups of earnest and excited 
 elderly gentlemen solemnly trotting round tables in the performance of 
 this mysterious rotation, and showing by their countenances that they 
 were convinced that themselves and the table were the subjects of a 
 new development of force which was about to revolutionize the physical 
 philosophy of the age, and to indicate the long-sought-for bridge which 
 spans the dark gulf between living and inanimate matter. Alas, for 
 their philosophical aspirations ! 
 
 Usque adeo res humanas vis abdita quaedam 
 
 Obterit. 
 
 To a person dispassionately observing the phenomenon for the first 
 time it surely would naturally occur that, as the things in immediate 
 contact were, on the one hand, inert (according to common philosophy) 
 matter, and, on the other, a number of bodies made up of nerves, 
 muscles, bones, &c., in short, an apparatus especially designed for 
 imparting motion to surrounding objects, the movement of the table 
 was somehow dependent on the action of the said instruments of 
 motion. He is met, however, by an assertion on the part of the 
 operators that they communicated no motion to the table, that they 
 only kept their hands in contact with it, and that it moved by virtue 
 of the electricity passing out of their bodies. A magnificent leap to a 
 conclusion ! But the observer is not eo agile in his inferences. He
 
 324 HABIT. 
 
 examines the facts attentively, and ventures to think that it is super- 
 fluous to invent any new causes for the explanation of a fact which, 
 though curious, falls within some of those categories of motion which 
 have been the topics of the forgoing lecture. The movements of the 
 hands or fingers laid on the table that give an impulse to it are not 
 volitional, but secondarily automatic ; partly ideagenous that is, 
 following the idea or expectation in the mind ; partly consensual, 
 through the muscular sense, or simply reflex. A certain time is required 
 in order that there may be the necessary unity of expectation and 
 unity in the direction of the unconscious operation. In many cases, 
 the table, though very light and mobile, will not stir at all. In these 
 instances the operators are not all impressed by the same idea, or the 
 hands of some are more under the influence of the will than of the 
 automatic agency. Marvellous stories are told of the table moving 
 on one or two legs only ; or, we should rather say, that the fact is told 
 as if it were marvellous, when the simple explanation is, that the 
 motive force is stronger on one side of the table than of the other. 
 
 It is perhaps worth while to remark, that in addition to the auto- 
 matic sources of motion referred to, there are two others ; one, that of 
 the insensible resting of the hands on the table when the operators are 
 fatigued ; the other, and a not unimportant source, the predominance 
 of the flexors over the extensors. The fingers are kept in contact only 
 with the table, that is, are prevented from pressing upon the table, by 
 the volitional action of the extensors. A very short time suffices for 
 the withdrawal of this volitional exertion, and then the flexors act by 
 their tonic contraction. The multiplication of this through forty or 
 fifty fingers will be enough to cause in the table sundry creakings and 
 irregular movements, very exciting.to the imaginations of the experi- 
 menters, whose minds unconsciously surrender themselves to the idea 
 of a movement in the table, and then a series of actions in the right 
 direction follows almost immediately as a matter of course.
 
 CRIMINAL RESPONSIBILITY 
 IN RELATION TO INSANITY. 
 
 COMMENCE this paper by saying, that I propose to discuss the 
 criminal responsibility of the insane under such aspects only as 
 are necessarily presented to all practitioners of medicine. The 
 consideration of the subject under all its bearings would be more 
 appropriately undertaken by those who have made the phenomena of 
 insanity their especial study, and the care of the insane the main 
 business of their lives. I need not remark, that our Branch* has the 
 honour of numbering among its members some very eminent repre- 
 sentatives of this class of observers and practitioners, one of whom, 
 in his presidential address last year, imparted to us some highly 
 valuable information on points connected with his particular experience; 
 and another has promised us a paper for this evening, to which my 
 own may, perhaps, serve as a very slight introduction. The only other 
 remark that I have to make in the way of preface is, that this paper 
 was written just after the trial and conviction of Townley the murderer, 
 and before the various discussions had appeared in journals and news- 
 papers, which, could I have foreseen them, would very probably have 
 deterred me from bringing before the Society a subject which, however 
 important, has become trite and all but exhausted. 
 
 Among medical writers and medical witnesses in courts of law, 
 there have been great differences of opinion as to what constitutes a 
 man irresponsible for a criminal act. But these differences may be 
 arranged under two or three heads. 
 
 This Paper was read before the Bath and Bristol Branch of the British 
 Medical Association at Clifton in 1869. [Ec.]
 
 326 CRIMINAL RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 1. There are those who think it must be proved, that the person 
 Tinder consideration was the subject of a delusion, an insane belief, the 
 result of a morbidly erroneous action of the comparing faculty, and 
 that this delusion originated the act for which the person is brought 
 to trial. 
 
 2. There are those who would not limit irresponsibility to so narrow 
 an issue. They say, that there may be no evidence of any particular 
 delusion ; but that the man before he committed the act manifested so 
 much disorder in his feelings, disposition, character, and general con- 
 duct, that he ought to be held irresponsible. 
 
 3. A third class hold that, if a man were one of whom it might be 
 said that he was in any way insane, whether in judgment, or in feel- 
 ing, or in propensities, no matter whether or not there be any evidence 
 of connection between the act and the special form of mental derange- 
 ment, still the mere proof of diseased mind ought to excuse the person 
 from the legal consequences of his act, even though there might be 
 evidence of an adequate motive for the act ; the theory in this view 
 being that, when it is once admitted that a man's mind is in any way 
 unsound, no one can deny that this unsoundness may have extended 
 to the feelings, motives, judgment, power of self-control, &c., so as to 
 put the act out of the category of crime. In other words, the holders 
 of this view do not require that, in order to exempt from responsibility, 
 the delusion, or the known morbid state of the emotions and moral 
 sentiments, should have been mixed up with the crime. 
 
 The view which the law takes of this subject is briefly this. It is 
 a mistake, according to Judge Maule, to speak of the "plea of insanity.'^ 
 It is not that a man is tried and convicted of a crime, and then that a 
 plea against judgment is presented on the ground of insanity, like the 
 plea of a general pardon or a previous acquittal. The issue is, whether, 
 say in the case of murder, the man committed the act wilfully and 
 maliciously. The prosecutor alleges that he did. The prisoner, in his 
 defence, gives evidence that wilfulness or malice cannot be predicated 
 of his act, because of the unsoundness of his mind. 
 
 Now, the stress of the evidence is all on this point. The jury have 
 to decide whether the prisoner's act was wilful and malicious. The 
 judge explains to them that he committed it wilfully and maliciously 
 unless he was in such a condition of mind at the time as not to know 
 that he was doing wrong ; or, as some put [it, not capable of knowing 
 the consequences of his act. It has been held by some great lawyers.
 
 EIGHT AND WRONG. 327 
 
 that, if the person committing tho act know that it is illegal, he is 
 responsible for the act. But the Judges, in their answers to questions 
 put to them some years ago by the House of Lords, in the case of 
 Macnaughten, for the solution of this point, decided that the jury 
 have to find whether the prisoner acted wilfully, and knew that he was 
 doing -wrong, and thereby incurring the punishment of the law ; or, 
 as it might otherwise be expressed, that the law cannot allow acquittal, 
 unless it be proved that the person was disabled by mental disease 
 from knowing that his act was wrong. I think that, as the lawyers 
 use the word " wilfully" as well as "maliciously" their proviso ought 
 to include those cases in which men, being driven by irresistible and 
 motiveless impulse to crime (as in homicidal insanity), cannot be said 
 to have committed the crime wilfully. 
 
 Some have contended that it is unreasonable to ask a jury to solve 
 problems so difficult as right and wrong. But, after all, it is only a 
 common-sense view that is required of the jury ; it is not a meta- 
 physical subtlety. The law is founded upon right and wrong principles 
 which people decide upon and act upon in the common affairs of life ; 
 and it is presumed that most persons know that such principles are the 
 foundation of the law.* The great difficulty, as I have hinted, which 
 the jurors have to meet, is that of determining whether the prisoner 
 was disabled by mental disease from knowing that his act was wrong. 
 Medical witnesses are summoned to give evidence on this very point. 
 One, as we have already seen, would say that it is enough to prove 
 the unsoundness of mind, because this may vitiate, more or less, all its 
 judgments, feelings, or motives. Another, with more limitation^ 
 would say that the man's insanity bore particularly on his feelings, 
 disposition, emotions, and motives to action ; and, therefore, that it 
 was specially liable to lead to an act of violence ; and that as our 
 feelings, in our soundest condition, affect our judgment, so, when 
 morbidly perverted, they are particularly lia,blo to warp it auu disable 
 a man from perceiving the quality of his act. A third will maintain 
 that there was a special delusion which led to the act in question, a.nd 
 made it of a quality claiming irresponsibility. But this argument of 
 delusion must be accompanied by proof of its emanating from a 
 diseased mind ; for, without this qualification, the strange opinions 
 
 * For a luminous statement of the legal aspect of this subject, I beg to refer to 
 a paper by Mr. Fitzjames Stephen, published iu Part I. of the Transactions of the 
 Juridical Society.
 
 328 CRIMINAL RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 held by sane men might exculpate any criminal act. Again, others 
 have argued with considerable justice, that you may grant the delusion, 
 and that the act flowed from it, but yet it does not follow that the man 
 did not know his act to be wrong. The lords put this question to the 
 fourteen judges. " If a person," ask the lords, " under an insane 
 delusion as to existing facts, commits an offence in consequence thereof, 
 is he thereby excused?" The judges answer: "Assuming that he 
 labours under such partial delusion only, and is not in other respects 
 insane, we think he must be considered in the same situation as to 
 responsibility, as if the facts with respect to which the delusion exists 
 were real." 
 
 This judgment leaves it open to the jury to take in the delusion as 
 a part of the evidence as to the prisoner's mental condition, though the 
 delusion itself does not justify the act. In the case of Hadfield, his 
 delusion consisted in his belief that he was our Lord ; that his death 
 was necessary for the salvation of mankind ; and that, though he 
 ought not to kill himself, yet for firing at George III. he would be 
 hanged, and so the world would be saved. It is clear, here, that he 
 did not feel that, in acting on his delusion, he was doing wrong, but 
 quite the reverse. In Bellingham's case, he was under the delusion 
 that Mr. Windham had injured him ; and, having mistaken ^ which 
 any sane person might have done) Mr. Perceval for Mr. Windham, 
 Bellingham shot him. There was no evidence to prove that he did not 
 know that he was doing wrong, so he was convicted ; for, if Mr. 
 Windham had indeed injured him, and Bellingham in revenge had 
 shot him, he (Bellingham) would, of course, have been convicted. The 
 feeling that followed upon the delusion or upon the real fact, and 
 which feeling brought about the murder, was the same in either case. 
 But still it might have been argued, that such a delusion was so 
 absurd as to indicate great unsoundness of mind ; and the jury in such 
 a case would have to settle in their CTTTI minds, whftther it was enoueh 
 to disable the subject of it from knowing that his act was wrong. 
 
 Cases are not uncommon in which persons have been afflicted with 
 a false impression that they heard voices maligning, denouncing, and 
 threatening them. Under such an impression, they have taken loaded 
 pistols and rushed out of their houses in search of the imaginary 
 offenders. Supposing that such a person had met some one on the 
 Bpot, and, under the influence of rage at the fancied insult, killed the 
 unoffending individual, was the insane man answerable for his action ?
 
 MENTAL DELUSIONS. 329 
 
 A man under any violent passion does not consider much the conse- 
 quences of his act ; and even had the insane man been really insulted 
 in this way, it would not justify his act. In such a case, the medical 
 witness may give an opinion that so strong a delusion indicated a 
 diseased brain, and that the man was disabled by the state of his 
 brain from knowing at the time that his act was wrong ; or that he 
 was for the time so mastered by the delusion as to have lost all power 
 of self-control ; so that, though his act was malicious, it was not 
 wilful. 
 
 If the delusion proved to exist in a case had nothing to do with the 
 act, the quality of the act must be judged on other evidence. In 
 Buranelli's case, it was pretty clear that this delusion had nothing to 
 do with his crime ; and that there was sufficient evidence of malicious 
 motive. But there were eminent psychopathologists who thought that, 
 independently of those delusions, the prisoner presented other evidence 
 of unsoundness of mind sufficient to make him irresponsible. In a 
 recent case (Townley's), the prisoner was held responsible because he 
 knew the consequences of his act, and he was actuated by evil passion, 
 and he premeditated the crime. But a question might be raised 
 whether he knew that he was doing wrong, seeing that he held the 
 notion that an engagement made the lady his property, and that he 
 might dispose of her as he liked. Though I should have joined in the 
 verdict of " guilty " on the whole evidence, I confess that there is a 
 difficulty in distinguishing what one might call a strange eccentric 
 individual belief or crotchet from what another would call an insane 
 belief in this case. But, seeing that the object of punishment is pre- 
 vention, it would be dangerous to admit that a young lady's life might 
 be left to the mercy of a lover's crotchets. 
 
 It may be worth while to dwell on the instances of delusion to 
 which I have just alluded. In all but that of Buranelli the delusion 
 was mixed up with the act. In Hadfield's case the delusion was not 
 only an utterly wild and absurd belief, but it also affected his sense of 
 the morality of his act, and his act had little or no personal passion 
 mixed up with it. In Bellingham's case the delusion, though con- 
 cerned in the act, did not affect the right or wrong of the act, and 
 natural passion entered largely into it. In the hearer of imaginary 
 voices, the delusion per se again might not justify the act (for it is 
 wrong to shoot a man for abusing you). In Townley's case, his 
 particular notion did affect his view of the quality of his act in a pro-
 
 330 CRIMINAL RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 eminent degree, but it was combined with violent personal feeling. 
 And the delusion, if so to be called rather than an eccentric notion, 
 was not enough to prove a diseased state of mind.* 
 
 What is delusion or insane belief ? Let us take one or two examples. 
 Suppose a man proposes to you to form a company for draining the 
 Mediterranean Sea, and making of the recovered land a magnificent 
 cherry-orchard ; this proposal is so contrary to all your notions of what 
 is probable or practicable, that you pronounce it at once to be insane. 
 Another comes to you, and avers that he can produce a change in your 
 body by administering to you decillionths of a drug, and persists even 
 when you have explained to him the numerical meaning of a decillionth, 
 which is equivalent to reductio ad absurdum. This is quite as opposed 
 to your notions of what is possible or practicable as the former notion, 
 but do you call it an insane belief? A third tells you that he believes 
 that a clairvoyante girl can read a writing placed on the epigastrium, or 
 form a judgment of the bodily and mental condition hundreds of miles 
 away, by means of a lock of hair. Is this an insane belief ? and if 
 insane, is it so insane as to argue disease of the mind which entertains 
 it ? A fourth tells you that he was justified in killing his betrothed, 
 because a marriage engagement gives a man absolute possession of the 
 woman, and the right to deal with her life. There is nothing more 
 insane in this belief than in the others which I have noticed. The 
 first and the fourth are the most dangerous ; the one to the property 
 of the speculator; the other to the life of the affianced lady. The 
 second and third may be only dangerous in the way of superseding 
 more reasonable and salutary methods of medical investigation and 
 treatment. 
 
 I think that the more we consider delusions, the more surely we 
 shall come to the opinion that a delusion, like a symptom of a disease, 
 must be viewed in connection with other mental facts before we can 
 arrive at a correct notion of the unsoundness of the mind, and the 
 correlative irresponsibility of its owner ; and it will be found that dif- 
 ferent species of insanity, like the groups of diseases in our nosological 
 classifications, run into each other. Not the less, however, do we 
 recognise the value of such classification. There is a class of cases in 
 
 * Since the above was written, it has been made highly probable by the investi- 
 gation of this case by the special commission, that the alleged notion was an after 
 thought set up in vindication of the crime. See a very able medico-legal commentary 
 on Townley's case, entitled " Insanity and Crime," by the editors of the Journal of 
 Mental Science.
 
 MORAL INSANITY. 331 
 
 which delusions or intellectual aberrations are the prominent pheno- 
 mena ; but they are rarely, if ever, unattended by an abnormal 
 condition of the emotions and feelings. There is another class in which 
 the feelings and sentiments which constitute disposition, temper, and 
 character, and which incite and govern actions, are disordered without 
 marked disturbance of the understanding (the moral insanity of 
 Prichard, the manie sans delire of Pinel) ; but if we examine them 
 carefully, we may often discover indications of impaired or disordered 
 judgment. And the same may be said of the group characterised by 
 violent disturbance of the lower propensities, while mania may present 
 in the same person manifestations of all the forms of derangements 
 which characterise the above groups. 
 
 Our excellent associate Dr. Davey, in an interesting pamphlet on 
 The Law of Lunacy in Relation to Crime, gives it as the result of his 
 observation and experience, that mental disorder generally, and espe- 
 cially that which is likely to be mixed up with criminal charges, 
 has its beginning, and betokens itself mainly, in the emotions and 
 propensities. 
 
 To return to the principal question of this paper. How far does 
 mental unsoundness affect a man's responsibility ? Perhaps we may 
 get a little additional light by looking at the question from a fresh 
 standing ground. Instead of looking at it from the side of insanity, 
 let us regard it from that of the rights, liberties, and interests of 
 society. Was the criminal under trial a free agent, enjoying all the 
 advantages and privileges of a person at large ? If he was, can the 
 law distinguish between him and other members of society ? Law is 
 & social contrivance for the preservation of life and property. As at 
 present constituted, it cannot without difficulty enter nicely into the 
 motives and antecedents of crime. It views the acts of men as they 
 are done, and deals with them according to its prescriptions. The legal 
 judge is not the maker and searcher of hearts. It is hard for him to 
 decide what motives or passions are irresistible ; or what temptation 
 was unduly yielded to, what bias was pardonable. If the biography 
 of every criminal could be fully unfolded, if his original organisation 
 could be laid bare, if the outward conditions of his moral life could be 
 described in detail, showing how every influence that should educe and 
 nourish the moral sense, was wanting, while all that could feed and 
 foster and develope the tendency to evil, was working upon him from 
 the cradle up to manhood, it might appear that, on a righteous and
 
 332 CRIMINAL KESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 equitable survey of the agencies and instincts to which the criminal had 
 been subject, he was perhaps a less culpable person than nine-tenths 
 of the members of the court at whose bar he is arraigned persons 
 whose propensities to commit legal offences have been held in check 
 by, or received no encouragement from education, position, habits, 
 customs, conventions, and worldly interest. Much of temptation is 
 hidden under social propriety. And, were hearts to be unveiled, 
 perhaps more might appear than might be pardonable, even among the 
 most respectable members of society. But such adjudications are not 
 for human tribunals, at least in the present imperfect state of society. 
 Men must be tried by their acts ; and the known consequences of 
 certain acts are the preventives to crime set up by society in its own 
 defence. Society does severe things. It is hard, though perhaps 
 unavoidable, to send brave, ignorant peasants to incalculable suffering, 
 and with the certainty of a large percentage of deaths, in fighting 
 battles for the defence of pestilent territories acquired on most question- 
 able titles. It is hard to imprison, and it ought to have been felt very 
 hard (in a former state of our penal code) to hang men for crimes 
 prompted by the most primitive of human needs. " You are not 
 hanged," a humane judge might say, " for stealing a sheep in behalf 
 of your craving stomach and famishing children, but you are hanged 
 in order that henceforth sheep may not be stolen. Your fate must 
 conform to the necessities of society." 
 
 But though society cannot nicely balance and allow for the natural 
 incentives to vice and for the faults of education, may it not allow for 
 morbid aberrations of judgment or for morbid propensities ? Unques- 
 tionably, when they amount to a certain degree. But what is that 
 degree ? This question we have already in part considered. But let 
 us ask another question. Why was the criminal at large ? Why was 
 he in the enjoyment of the privileges of society, if he were not 
 answerable to the law which protects these privileges ? This question 
 points out to our minds a test that may be a help to us as medical 
 witnesses, whatever may be the value of it to the public, or to the 
 deliberations of a court. If we are considering whether a prisoner is 
 responsible or not for his act, let us ask ourselves whether the facts 
 testifying to his unsoundness of mind were such as would have justified 
 us in certifying him as a person fit to be confined. And if we can 
 satisfy ourselves that we should not have judged him to be a person 
 who could be entrusted with his liberty, we may safely pronounce him
 
 THE PARTIALLY INSANE. 333 
 
 irresponsible for his actions. But if we must have left him at large, 
 then he must be treated as a free agent, and one who was not disabled 
 by mental disorder from knowing that his act was wrong. 
 
 I think my fellow-members will give due consideration to this sug- 
 gestion. And were it brought before the attention of the public as 
 likely to be carried into practice, it might probably have an indirectly 
 beneficial operation on those unfortunate persons about whom is the 
 question. Were the partially insane to know that so long as they 
 have liberty they are answerable to the law, I believe that this know- 
 ledge would lead them to that self-restraint which is the object of 
 deterrent penalties. And as to the public, they would take more heed 
 of those individuals who, by reason of their unsoundness of mind, are 
 dangerous possessors of liberty. The test would not only diminish the 
 odium or obloquy which at present is so often attached to those who 
 place such persons under control, but it would impel the friends of 
 such persons to the performance of a duty from which it is often 
 natural to shrink. But here comes a difficulty which must be familiar 
 to all who have had to deal with these debateable cases. There is no 
 friend or relation willing to incur the responsibility and the expense of 
 consigning the case to an asylum. What is to be done ? This diffi- 
 culty points to a great public want, which will, I trust, be some day 
 supplied. I mean the appointment of public medico-legal function- 
 aries, whose business it shall be to investigate and take the responsibility 
 of determining upon, and providing for, the seclusion of the cases- 
 alluded to. I think it would eventually appear that it is better, nay, 
 that it is fiscally and economically preferable to deposit a brain-sick 
 man in a hospital for the insane, where he may be cured as well as 
 kept out of the way of harm to himself or others, than to allow him 
 to remain at large till he has committed some crime which will cause 
 him in one case to be maintained at the public expense as a convict or 
 prisoner for life, or in another to be executed as a doubtful criminal. 
 
 There are two obstacles, but not, I think, insuperable, against the 
 practical utility of the criterion which I have proposed. One is pre- 
 sented by such cases of madness as begin abruptly, and are, indeed, 
 first betokened by the very act for which the perpetrator is under trial. 
 Such are the cases of impulsive mania, called Phonomania, Pyromania,. 
 and Kleptomania. Now, I think, if these cases are studied carefully, 
 it will be seen that they are so flagrant as to prevent any question 
 about them ; that, although the person affected manifested no such
 
 "334 CKIMINAL RESPONSIBILITY. 
 
 indications of mental unsoundness previously to the act as would have 
 justified any one in depriving him of liberty, yet the act itself was so 
 motiveless, so obviously the result of an irresistible impulse, as to take 
 it out of the legal category either of wilfulness or of malice. 
 
 Another difficulty would be offered in cases in which a delusion, 
 though long held, has only been manifested by the act itself. If it be 
 plain that the delusion did exist at the time of the act, then we may 
 consider whether, had we known of such delusion, we should have 
 deprived the person of his liberty. But if the delusion would not 
 have been strong enough to justify such interference, then let the 
 criminal be held responsible. 
 
 But here I beg to remark that, in debating these questions of 
 responsibility, we are taken somewhat beyond our strictly medical 
 functions. Sometimes we willingly, almost officiously, pass out of our 
 province ; but oftener we are dragged out of it. I do not think, that 
 it is our business to say what is moral, much less legal, irresponsibility. 
 It might be well for us to resolve and agree to say no more than what 
 we know as medical practitioners. Let us declare the man to be, in 
 our judgment, sane or insane ; just as, in examining for an insurance 
 office, we pronounce the candidate to be sound or unsound in body. 
 Having declared him to be unsound in mind, let moralists and legal 
 judges settle the question whether he was responsible for his actions. 
 For my own part, I do not hold that, in the abstract, unsoundness of 
 mind should, necessarily and in all cases, exempt from culpability. 
 Every case must be examined on its own merits ; and the questions on 
 which the individual case must turn are, as it seems to me, legal and 
 moral, not medical. We have burthens enough on our minds ; enough 
 of difficult problems to solve ; and it is hard to have forced on us those 
 which do not belong to our calling. 
 
 But whether we like it or not, we shall still have these troublesome 
 questions pressed upon our consideration. Was the prisoner insane to 
 such a degree as to take his act out of the category of malice and wilful- 
 ness? Was he ignorant that he was doing wrong and breaking the law ? 
 Had his disorder deprived him of the power of self-control ? I repeat 
 what I have said, that, in determining these points, we study the whole 
 man ; and consider whether, had we known his history, we should 
 have allowed him to be in possession of his liberty. And we must 
 remember that, while it is our duty, on the one hand, to save an irre- 
 sponsible man from punishment, we must not, on the other, push our 

 
 FEEBLE MORAL SENSE. 
 
 theories as to human actions so far as to weaken that check which 
 punishment gives to crime ; ever bearing in mind that, while one man 
 may be so overmastered by morbid propensity, and another by wilfully 
 indulged passion, either of which may set all fear of punishment at 
 defiance, there are vast numbers of persons with feeble moral sense, 
 moderate passions, and exposed to strong temptations, whose premedi- 
 tation of crime is arrested by the dread of punishment. For, putting 
 aside the fear of criminal punishment, are we not all aware that even 
 minor penalties are strongly operative ? What would be the safety of 
 virtue and what of integrity, were there no such punishment as social 
 loss of caste and social dishonour ? 
 
 In conclusion, and to gather up the more important practical points 
 of this paper. It will be our duty to inquire in any case : 1. As to 
 delusions, whether they were of so gross a nature as in themselves to 
 argue a diseased state of the understanding; or whether, though of an 
 insulated nature, and not involving the whole mind, they had a direct 
 bearing on the crime ; or whether they were mixed up with morbid 
 emotions and sentiments. 2. As to cases without manifest delusions, 
 whether the state of the emotions and moraKfeelings was so perverted, 
 either with reference to the ordinary standard, or with reference to 
 what was the patient's former temper and character, as to indicate a 
 morbid condition, that condition telh'ng in particular on the power of 
 self-control. In distinguishing such cases, it will be a help to view 
 the inordinate emotion in relation to the object which excited it as in 
 the common cases of revenge, hate, jealousy, and cupidity ; and to con- 
 sider the proportion between the passion and its provocation. 3. As 
 to the impulsive forms of mania, these ought not to be admitted but 
 on the strongest evidence. But luckily, in such cases, the evidence is 
 usually very convincing ; or if not so to the merely legal mind, it is 
 conclusive to those who have any practical acquaintance with the great 
 -variety of the forms which mental disorder can assume.
 
 THE PUBLIC 
 ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 ?HEBE are two kinds of common place : one which consists in 
 )| repeating a sentiment which has been frequently expressed 
 * before ; the other, in saying something which, though it may 
 not have been said before, has been in every one's mind, and 
 indeed has to every one seemed to be so obvious as not to need 
 communication. To the latter head you cannot fail to refer the remark 
 which I am now about to make, and which I cannot avoid making, 
 namely, that the present meeting of the British Medical Association* 
 is held under what may be called trying circumstances ; trying to the 
 stout hearts, trying to the amour proper of this locality ; for it is the 
 first meeting held in the provinces since the metropolitan meeting. 
 The events of that meeting are too fresh in the recollection of those 
 who partook of its splendour and its enjoyments, and too well known 
 by testimony to those who like myself were so unfortunate as to have 
 been absent from it, for me to think of telling how it was attended, 
 how it was conducted, and how it was presided over ; nor will I use- 
 lessly spend time in deprecating a comparison of that meeting with 
 what we are now inaugurating. TVe trust to your clemency and 
 generosity ; and, as the temporary representative of the profession in 
 this place, I humbly beg to offer the Association a hearty welcome to 
 our ancient city and neighbourhood. 
 
 The distinguished founder of this Association is reported to have 
 said last year in London, when the proposal was made that the next 
 
 This Paper was read as the President's Address at the meeting of the British 
 Medical Association in Bristol, 1863. Ed.
 
 THE BRITISH MEDICAL ASSOCIATION. 337 
 
 meeting should take place in Bristol, that he entertained a very 
 favourable recollection of a former meeting in this city. I shall be 
 content, and my fellow members in this district will be content, if this 
 second visit of the Association shall be considered as agreeable to the 
 body generally as was the former. Of this happy result I should 
 despair, were I to think only of the terrible gaps, which Time has made 
 in our ranks since then. Thirty years, one of the fleeting generations 
 of men, have passed away since that time. But it is not with a public 
 association as with a private circle of friends. In the latter case there 
 is nothing to be done but to close up the vacant spaces, draw nearer 
 together, and, with the scattered remnant of our company, do battle as 
 best we may against Time and Fate. But it is not so with a public 
 body, which has no essential and inevitable mortality. It has the vital 
 principle of royalty " the king is dead long live the king !" Or, in 
 a better comparison, we might say that it has the vitality of organic 
 structures. If its nutrition be healthy, as fast as one set of molecules 
 die away others take their places, and fulfil their functions. Three 
 decades of years are gone since the former meeting of the Association 
 in this city ; and these three decades, which witnessed the passing 
 away of so many who brought honour to our profession, witnessed 
 also the production of discoveries and writings, the influence of which 
 must last as long as the science and art of medicine endure. Of the 
 truth of this remark, ample proofs might be culled from those annual 
 retrospects the origination of which is due to this Association ; and, 
 perhaps, it has been not the least important part of the work 
 which the Association has incited. I have not time to particularise, 
 but if any one wished to mark the progress made during this period 
 of history, it would be enough to take up systematic treatises on 
 pathology and medicine published before 1833, and to compare them 
 with those at present in the hands of students. To pass from Alison, 
 Eliotson, and Andral, to Williams, Watson, Paget, and Virchow, 
 would be to pass over a space filled with an immense accumulation of 
 new researches and valuable discoveries. 
 
 When this Association met in 1833, Marshall Hall had not under- 
 taken, or at least hud not made known to the world, those experimental 
 inquiries which, whatever controversies they begot as to the absolute 
 originality of his views, yet gave a new impulse and a new character 
 to the whole science of neurology. At that time the anatomy of tissues 
 was only such as Andral, and Beclard, and Meckel had left it, that is,
 
 338 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 at the utmost limit to which the dissection of that time could advance 
 it ; for then the microscope had not been brought in to aid the scalpel. 
 The names now so familiar to us, of Vogel, Hasse, Bowman, Henle, 
 Kolliker, were then unknown. At that time the blood as a seat of 
 disease was only adverted to in a faint whisper of suspicion. But no 
 minute researches had been made as to the relative proportions of 
 fibrin, globules, and albumen in various diseases ; much less had the 
 microscope been employed in aiding the analysis. The cellular theory 
 of the growth of vegetable and animal structures had not then been 
 broached ; and the names of Schleiden and Schwan had not reached 
 this country ; nor, indeed, were their observations promulgated in 
 Germany till long after the date we are looking at. 
 
 Dr. Bright's great discovery had not attracted general attention, 
 though his Medical Reports appeared in 1827. I find no allusion to it 
 in the earliest annals of this Association. It was not till a few years 
 afterwards that albuminuria became a prominent object to pathological 
 inquirers, though we now regard it as not only momentous in itself, 
 but also as having given a great impulse to our modern humoral patho- 
 logy. It was long after that time that our improved methods of 
 treating phthisis began ; uterine pathology was in its infancy ; and, 
 however much those who have practised new methods of treatment in 
 the pelvic diseases of women may have been carried away by their 
 sanguine expectations, it must, on a calm and candid review of the 
 subject, be allowed that great improvements have been made since the 
 time when chronic disorders of the female organs were mostly included 
 under scirrhus, fibrous tiimour, uterine neuralgia, leucorrhcea, &c. 
 Surgery, especially conservative surgery, can number great achieve- 
 ments that had been previously undreamed of. And there has been 
 one therapeutical movement which did not begin till long after the 
 epoch we are considering, I mean the use of anaesthetics by inhalation. 
 Were there no other discovery to stand out on the medical annals of 
 the last thirty years than the anodyne use of ether and chloroform, it 
 would be enough to make the whole suffering world, through unborn 
 generations, look back to the intervening era with admiration and 
 gratitude. 
 
 I do not profess to take even the most superficial glance at the 
 history of our science and art : I have only alluded to it as prefatory 
 to a question which may, perhaps, be a suitable theme for our con- 
 sideration at the present time. A review of the progress of medicine,
 
 JUDGED BY SUCCESS OE FAILURE. 339 
 
 and an impartial estimate of the facts which it surveyed, would be 
 sufficient, one would imagine, to render this question nugatoiy : How 
 has the art of medicine advanced in the opinion of the public ? Surely 
 enough must be known by persons beyond the pale of the profession 
 as to the researches to which powerful and industrious minds have been 
 devoted ; enough must be known to increase the confidence of the 
 public in the art which is the ultimate object of those researches. But 
 we will not now consider how the public mind ought reasonably to 
 regard the progress of medicine, but let us ask, What is the fact ? 
 How is it regarded ? 
 
 In all times there have been a large proportion of the public who 
 have traditionally adhered to medicine, though they have not escaped 
 the risk of being occasionally carried away by some quackery of the 
 hour. And the relation of this part of the public has remained much 
 the same, except that occasional secessions from it have been made on 
 a larger scale during the time we have been contemplating than at any 
 previous period ; the causes of which I need not inquire into. On the 
 other hand, a portion of the public have at all times entertained a 
 certain amount of distrust of the resources of medicine. And from 
 the satirists and epigrammists of various times might be gathered a 
 curious collection of opinions, by no means complimentary to medical 
 practitioners. There is much of contingent matter in our science and art 
 by the very necessity of things, and the gross results are what men 
 judge by. They do not know the processes ; they cannot measure the 
 difficulties, but they can estimate a success or a failure. Lord Bacon 
 says : " Almost all other arts and sciences are judged by acts or 
 masterpieces, as I may term them, and not by the successes and events. 
 The lawyer is judged by the virtue of his pleading, and not by the 
 issue of the cause. The master of the ship is judged by directing his 
 course aright, and not by the fortune of the voyage. But the physician, 
 and perhaps the politician, hath no particular acts demonstrative of his 
 ability, but is judged most by the event ; which is ever but as it is 
 taken ; for who can tell, if a patient die or recover, or if a state be 
 preserved or ruined, whether it be art or accident? And therefore 
 many times the impostor is prized, and the man of virtue taxed. Nay, 
 we see the weakness and credulity of men is such, as they will often 
 prefer a mountebank or witch before a learned physician." (Advance- 
 ment of Learning.) 
 
 It is not surprising then, that, according as a happy or an unsuc-
 
 340 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 cessful issue has chanced to impress the minds of men, our profession 
 has become the subject of extravagant eulogy, or of abuse and 
 derision ; for the feelings of the observers are by the very nature of the 
 case highly excited on the subject, and to a degree that both warps 
 their judgment and gives emphasis to their expressions. There are on 
 the one side surprise, and delight, and thankfulness at life saved or 
 anguish soothed ; and on the other side disappointment, grief, despair, 
 when a life is unexpectedly extinguished, or when pain goes on baffling 
 every effort made to quell it. Such contrasts of feelings in different 
 persons, or alternations of them in the same person, must naturally 
 belong more or less to the public. 
 
 But, while one can understand and make the utmost allowance for 
 the disappointment often felt by those who have sought the help of 
 medical art, one might expect, if they know anything of the amount of 
 study and labour which has been bestowed upon medical science, and 
 if they consider how the individual practitioner whom they consult has 
 made it the main business of his life, one might expect them to say to 
 themselves : '' Well, whatever may be the shortcomings of medicine, 
 it is plain that well-informed practitioners must, at all events, know 
 far more of the matter than we do. If they know but little, we know 
 less ; if they can give us but little help, whence can we get more ?" 
 
 And this, indeed, does represent the feelings of a large number of 
 persons : but with others there is an under-current of doubt and dis- 
 trust, even when they yield a sort of external confidence to medicine. 
 And of this scepticism, were it of an enlightened, inquiring form, we 
 ought by no means to complain. It is obvious that a great deal of it 
 within the last quarter of a century has been caused by the extensive 
 circulation of works which have made it a special object to infuse 
 doubt and dissatisfaction into the public mind as to the claims of 
 medical science and art, as hitherto taught and practised, and to favour 
 the introduction of new methods and systems. But over and above 
 this, there are other causes which, though individually slight, have by 
 their co-operation done a great deal towards unsettling general faith. 
 Such are the seeming success that has resulted in certain cases from 
 the abandonment of medical treatment, and trusting entirely to un- 
 assisted nature ; the apparent benefit derived from methods of treatment 
 disapproved by regular practitioners, and adopted by patients who take 
 the law into their own hands ; the prosperous results ensuing on the 
 seditious and treasonable advice of their friends, in contravention of
 
 OPINIONS OF EDUCATED MEN. 341 
 
 the authority and injunctions of the medical adviser ; the conflicting 
 opinions and directions of practitioners themselves, not merely as one 
 man differs from another in drawing practical corollaries from the 
 -same established truths, or in applying them in individual cases, but as 
 to the whole system and process of cure, as, for instance, whether 
 reduction or support should be the ruling object ; the alleged preva- 
 lence of fashions of treatment among the faculty, so that the same 
 methods and remedies seem to be applied to a vast variety of seemingly 
 dissimilar disorders ; and the unwise and rash admissions of eminent 
 men as to some uncertainty and inefficacy of medical science and art, 
 admissions which may be fittingly and honestly called unwise and 
 rash, because the qualifications are not appended or cannot be under- 
 stood ; such admissions torn, as it were, from their context, being 
 easily garbled and turned to mischievous purpose against the real 
 interests of mankind, as well as of the medical profession. Upon each 
 of these heads we might expatiate at some length did time allow us ; 
 but it cannot be doubted that they severally and conjointly operate in 
 lessening the confidence which is due to medicine. 
 
 The scepticism of educated men out of our profession may be some- 
 what judged of by an extract from an article in the Saturday Review 
 for October 11, 1862, on "Physiology and Medicine;" also from one 
 in the London Review for January 24, 1863, entitled " Doctors." 
 
 " It has been a convenient doctrine to set down the success of dissenting medicine 
 to the general want of scientific instruction, and to an ignorant impatience of disease 
 among the unreasonable mass of mankind, prompting them to have recourse to 
 whatever irregular short cut might be offered for escape from bodily suffering. But 
 in this, as in some other matters, men in general are not such fools as wise professors 
 think them. Cold water and hot air, nay, even such coarse specifics as those of Morri- 
 son and Holloway, have not recruited their votaries exclusively amongst the ignorant 
 and credulous. The plain truth is, that people have followed quacks because they have 
 not found in the doctrines or the practice of the regular profession reasonable ground 
 for confidence. Even those who knew nothing of the numerous revolutions that 
 over and over again upset the prevailing doctrines as to the nature of disease and 
 remedial action, have seen that there could be little certainty about a system which 
 changes all its outward practices every ten or twenty years. If bleeding, calomel, 
 starving, stimulants, warm rooms, open windows, havfc each been tried in turn, and, 
 as it seems, without any marked advantage one over the other in effecting cures, it 
 was not surprising that sceptics should doubt the inspiration of the oracle whose 
 utterances were found to be so changing. Those who examined further, and dis- 
 covered that the doctrines which were successively invoked to authorise each new 
 system of treatment rested on arbitrary assumptions, not demonstrated, nor, for the 
 most part, capable of demonstration, began to suspect, for the most part, that the
 
 342 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 difference between regular medicine and quackery was not so profound as they had 
 been used to believe. Both appeared to be in the dark as to first principles, and to 
 appeal for support to empirical evidence. After analysing all that medical science 
 could say in the great majority of cases of disease, the only reason to be given why 
 you should swallow a given drug was the fact that many others, who seemed to be 
 affected in a way similar to yourself, had taken the same drug and had survived the 
 dose. The doctor, often uncertain of the nature of your disease, was quite ignorant 
 of the cause of it. He had no evidence as to the action of his drug, or even whether 
 it acted at all upon the cause of disease ; and lastly, he had no certainty that the 
 drug would affect you in the same manner as others who had taken it. The very 
 utmost he could urge was a belief, more or less probable, that the same drug had 
 been serviceable in cases presumed to be similar. Was there any essential difference 
 between his process of reasoning and that of the honest quack, who, by a nearly 
 similar process, had worked himself into a belief in the virtues of a specific ?" 
 
 The writer in the London Review asks : 
 
 " But can any one at this moment seriously declare that there is such a thing as 
 a science of medicine ? What there is is this. There are a few facts a very few 
 distinctly known, and beyond the reach of controversy ; and the number of them 
 increases but slowly, if it increases sensibly at all. There is a pharmacopoeia of 
 drugs, about the use of which no three men agree completely, and about which, what- 
 ever agreement there is, is derived from simple empiricism. There is a vast amount 
 of chemical research, which appears to bring more physiological difficulties to light 
 than it serves to explain, and passes by a number of organic laws to which it is 
 powerless to afford the slightest clue. It may be urged that all true science is 
 founded on empiricism. So it is ; but does any true science end with it ? Can the 
 doctors point to any one new law of their profession which they have laid down from 
 the consideration of general principles, whether those general principles have been 
 derived from practice or not ?" 
 
 I cannot forbear adding another short quotation from the same 
 article, because of the compliment offered to my surgical brethren. 
 After remarking on the rapid progress of the science of farming, the 
 writer is so good as to say, 
 
 " The practice of surgery has made great steps in a still shorter period, and has 
 discovered in chloroform a source of blessing to the human race, which will compare 
 with any since the invention of steam. The legitimate gratitude of mankind is 
 attested by the fact that there is not a single novel or drama of modern times iu 
 which a practising surgeon plays the part of a fool." 
 
 I quote from these journals, not because they have any special 
 authority in relation to the subjects which we are considering, but 
 because from the well known ability and learning of their conductors 
 and contributors, they may be held to represent the higher culture of 
 our people. It will have been noticed that these adverse criticisms on 
 medicine include two principal charges: 1st. That it is not a true
 
 DEFINITION OF SCIENCE. 343 
 
 science ; and 2nd. That the practice consists of mere empirical pro- 
 cesses, that is, processes that have been ascertained, or only thought, 
 to be useful in the cure of diseases, but which have not been founded 
 on any real knowledge of the mode in which they act beneficially. 
 
 Now, What is strictly a science ? Is it not an account of pheno- 
 mena, representing accurately their arrangement in space, and their 
 order in time ; an account which classifies them as occurring in certain 
 groups to which names have been affixed, names that, to persons duly 
 instructed, recall the collection of facts; an account which, from a 
 great multitude of complex qualities and events, selects and gives 
 prominence to those which are essential to the collection as distin- 
 guished from the accidental, and which discriminates, out of successive 
 phenomena, those which are only occasionally, from those which are 
 invariably, antecedent ; an account which enables an observer to read 
 the past and the future in the present, that is, to tell what must have 
 preceded the phenomena under observation, and to state certainties, or 
 high probabilities, as to the future ; an account which enables an 
 observer, from facts presented to his senses or reported to him as the 
 subjective sensations of others, to say what changes have occurred or 
 are going on in processes beyond the reach of direct perception ? Now, 
 if such an account of phenomena be not entitled to the designation of 
 a science, I do not know what is. Yet such is medicine ; and there is 
 not one of my hearers, I will venture to say, who will not be ready to 
 own from his own knowledge, often tested, often leaned upon in great 
 crises, that the description I have so briefly sketched rather understates 
 than overestimates that scientific observation and registration of pheno- 
 mena on which our pathology is constructed, and which guides us in 
 our recognition of the causes of diseases, and our expectations as to 
 their course and issue. 
 
 To the other allegation, that medicine, as an art, is merely empirical, 
 it is a sufficient answer that the art is, for the most part, founded on 
 and directed by the science to which I have adverted. To say that it 
 is a mere bundle of traditions, shows so profound an ignorance that it 
 must excite extreme wonder in the mind of anyone who has even only 
 the most superficial acquaintance with therapeutics. One is at a loss 
 to account for the origin of so strange a delusion in the minds of these 
 disparagers of medical art. One source however may, perhaps, be 
 traced to the misrepresentations which are unhappily to be found in 
 writings where one would have least expected them. I regret to con-
 
 344 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 fess that there have been writers on our art, who, in their anxiety to 
 impress what they consider some all-important principle of treatment, 
 and which has an exaggerated importance in their eyes, either because 
 it has something of novelty or because they have taken a distinguished 
 part in its recognition or recommendation, speak of other principles as 
 valueless, or hypothetical, or erroneous. Other writers again, who, 
 from practical inaptitude, have incurred much disappointment in the 
 exercise of medical art, have, instead of recognising the real cause of 
 their failures, been ready to fancy that the art itself is of little worth, 
 and that the sick might as well be left to the natural tendencies to cure. 
 All periods of medical history might furnish specimens of this kind of 
 detractors ; men driven by disappointment into disaffection, and whose 
 treasonable words have been caught up by some of the unthinking or 
 malicious multitude. 
 
 If a teacher of medicine really wishes the public to be rightly 
 informed as to the character of medical art, he should endeavour to 
 set forth the fact, which all my hearers will admit to be true, that the 
 difference between the scientific physician and the empiric consists in 
 this, that the former does not rest his art on arbitrary assumptions, nor 
 on the mere observation of specific remedies. The rational physician 
 endeavours to learn first of all the order of events in the healthy organ 
 and its functions, the nature and causes of the disturbance of this 
 order in which disease consists, and then the events which precede the 
 return to a healthy state ; and from these various sources of informa- 
 tion, together with a knowledge, which has been acquired in various 
 ways, of agents which influence the natural actions of the living body, 
 lie endeavours to help or hasten the processes which repair, and to 
 restrain those which are hurtful. 
 
 Surely that kind of knowledge deserves to be characterised as 
 scientific, which enables a physician to determine, from a combination 
 of direct and inferential signs, that there is a collection of fluid in one 
 pleura, and so unhesitatingly that he requests the surgeon to plunge a 
 trocar into the chest ; or which pronounces that a seemingly mechanical 
 closure of the larynx is caused by the pressure of a tumour within the 
 chest, exerted on a nerve which animates the muscular fibres at the 
 opening of the glottis ; or which can declare one case of paralysis to 
 be caused by a clot of blood in the right or left corpus striatum, and 
 another to be caused by disorganisation of a portion of the spinal cord. 
 I mention these instances as some of the least uncommon.
 
 SCIENTIFIC MEDICINE. 345 
 
 If this be not scientific medicine, it would be difficult to say what 
 could be so called. Obviously there is much yet to be learned. But I 
 suppose that this remark may be applied to every science and art. 
 Ours is not the only science which has attained to more proximate than 
 ultimate principles. It may be true, for instance, that as to the opera- 
 tion of medicines we only know that one increases or arrests certain 
 actions in the intestines, another in the kidneys, another in the brain, 
 another in the heart, another in the lungs, another in the uterus ; and 
 that we do not know why substances which reach the organs through 
 the blood, should exert a preferential action on one organ rather than 
 on another. Jalap may have an elective affinity for the intestine, 
 opium for the whole encephalon, aconite for the sensory ganglia, 
 strychnine for the spinal cord, ergot of rye for the uterus ; and this 
 may be all that we can at present say of these well known relations. 
 But when the chemist announces that sulphuric acid prefers potass to 
 magnesia, and that silver prefers chlorine to nitric acid, &c., is he 
 twitted with the limitation of his knowledge, and put into the same 
 category with the empirical alchemist, because he cannot explain the 
 cause of those elective affinities? 
 
 There is no more prevalent mistake, as to the practice of medicine, 
 than the idea alluded to in one of the extracts which I have read to 
 you ; namely, that our art consists chiefly in a blind administration 
 of specifics. Now, you know very well that in an enormous majority 
 of instances drugs are given in order to produce some well known 
 physiological effect, that is, a change in degree or kind of some func- 
 tion or functions, which change has been known, when effected in other 
 cases, to abate or remove the disordered state of functions of which 
 the patient is the subject. Belladonna is prescribed to a person in a 
 paroxysm of asthma, not because it is a specific for that disorder, but 
 because it is known to diminish muscular contraction, the excess of 
 which in the fibres of the bronchial tubes makes the spasm of asthma. 
 Elaterium is administered to an ascitic patient, not because some one 
 suffering like disease has been better after taking it, but because that 
 substance drains a large quantity of serum from the mucous surface of 
 the intestines ; both reason and experience having proved, in number- 
 less instances, that abdominal dropsy disappears by absorption after 
 the action of powerful hydragogues, just as effusions in the pleura 
 disappear after blisters. 
 
 The professors of rational medicine may differ in their explanations
 
 346 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 of phenomena so complex, intricate, and changeable as those of disease ; 
 and they may have marked preferences for various instruments and 
 methods of cure ; and they may often change their opinions under the 
 influence of new observations and discoveries. The growing dis- 
 position among the more enlightened may be to withhold the more 
 violent procedures, those which interfere most artificially with natural 
 processes, and to study with more and more care the natural tenden- 
 cies to cure, and the natural tendencies to dissolution, and to make it 
 the aim of their art to play oft the conservative against the destructive 
 tendencies. And in doing this they may, as I have said, differ greatly 
 in their procedures ; and some of their measures may be taken up and 
 laid aside, and taken up again with various degrees of favour, owing, 
 as I believe, not so much to the fluctuations of medical opinion, as to 
 the variations of the subject matter ; that is, the changing character 
 of diseases, the changing constitutions of men, operated upon by the 
 changing series of meteorological agencies, of social customs, and of 
 personal habits. 
 
 Is it not unreasonable, not to say ungenerous, to fasten on the pro- 
 fessor of medical art a reproach that belongs less or more to all human 
 arts? Are mistakes and uncertainties confined to medicine? Can 
 constant and unerring procedures be claimed for, I will not say agri- 
 culture, horticulture, and the breeding of animals, since these, like 
 medicine, have to do with organic nature ; but for arts which profess 
 to be founded on calculations of the invariable relations of measure 
 and number, on rigid observation of invariable antecedents and con- 
 sequents ? Are engineers never out in their calculations never beaten 
 in their undertakings? Do their tunnels never fall in? Are their 
 railways never undermined by springs, or swept away by tides ? Have 
 their ships never proved all but incapable of launching, from having 
 been built upon a mistake as to the proportionate antagonism of fric- 
 tion and gravitation ? Are they agreed as to their methods ? They do 
 not seem to be able to decide even the best form of a gun-barrel. Yet, 
 they have only brute matter to deal with matter, ponderable and 
 measureable with quantitative proportions known and acted upon, 
 and machines that may be stopped and set to work at will. They have 
 not to discover and rectify faults in machinery while still in motion ; 
 no perplexities are thrown into their problems by such incalculable 
 agencies as nerve-force, vital chemistry, cell-growth, and the ever- 
 shifting phenomena of human individuality, the uncertainties of human
 
 THE AKT OF MEDICINE. 347 
 
 sensibility, the perturbations of emotion and passion, the caprices of 
 humour and temper, the fickle purpose, the -wavering will, and all 
 those contrarieties of man's constitution which make him ever the 
 same, and yet not the same, and which, operative enough as they are 
 in health, become a hundredfold more prominent in disease and more 
 embarrassing, because they must be excused, and often can neither be 
 reproved nor reasoned with. 
 
 I confess that I do not see how the art of medicine can ever take 
 its right place in public estimation, till the public mind has acquired 
 the requisite knowledge and the requisite cultivation of its reasoning 
 powers to judge of it, for both of these are really needed. Knowledge 
 alone will not suffice ; for, if it could, we should be at a loss to account 
 for cases which occur every now and then, in which men who have 
 undergone a certain amount of medical training, and are possessed of 
 an average amount of medical knowledge, have not only declared their 
 disbelief in medical science, as taught in our schools, but have espoused 
 some of the foolish theories and practices which have been set up 
 against it. Such persons illustrate the uselessness or even mischievous- 
 ness of knowledge, unless regulated by logic, and, I may add, by 
 common sense. But on the other hand, mere logic and common sense 
 will not be sufficient without the data on which they should work. It 
 is simply want of knowledge, which explains the disparaging terms in 
 which our art is sometimes spoken of, as we have seen, by men of high 
 intellectual culture. We must also admit that the respect which it 
 receives from the majority of well-educated persons is due, not so much 
 to actual knowledge, as to conventional acquiescence in the claims of a 
 learned profession, and to the presumption that able, vigorous, and 
 conscientious minds cannot have given their best thoughts and hardest 
 labour to the elucidation of a certain class of natural phenomena, 
 without having arrived at some definite truths and some sound princi- 
 ples of action. For, in judging of medical theories and medical 
 practice, it is ever to be borne in mind that, with a very few exceptions, 
 they have not been devised and inculcated by men withdrawn from the 
 outward world, and absorbed in dreamy abstract meditation. They 
 are not the excogitations of the solitary recluse who sits in his cell, 
 painfully weaving the web of thought from his own interior, " toiling 
 out his own cocoon." But whatever their real worth may be, they are 
 at least founded on a long and patient observation of nature. There- 
 fore, a candid and intelligent bystander may reasonably admit that
 
 348 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 such study cannot be profitless. Let a human mind, moderately well 
 prepared, be set in front of the aspects and processes of nature, stea- 
 dily enough and long enough, and it cannot but receive an impression 
 more or less faithfully representing the facts. There must be an image 
 on the mind ; but, as in the work of the photographer, the definiteness 
 of the delineation, and the exactness of the shading, will depend on 
 the care and skill with which the plate has been prepared and handled. 
 If the able and intelligent men, who sometimes speak slightingly of 
 medical science, would but consider that there must be a nexus between 
 the different parts of nature ; that there is a necessary pre-established 
 correlation between the phenomenal world and the percipient and 
 reflective powers of man, they could scarcely fail to see that it is an 
 absurdity, and almost a blasphemy against the constitution of the 
 universe, to maintain that some of the grandest and finest minds God 
 ever made, had, over long series of years, been engaged in laborious 
 contemplation, and study, and experimental inquisition of those facts 
 which we call disease, and morbific agents and remedies, and that their 
 honest endeavours had been vain and profitless. It would be tanta- 
 mount to saying that man, who was born to live by the sweat of his 
 brow, might plough, and harrow, and sow, in a kindly soil, and that, 
 as the result of his labours, there would be nothing to reap but tares 
 and thistles. 
 
 As to the unthinking public and the airy satirists, we can afford 
 and consent to excuse the one, and to smile at the other ; but from the 
 serious and well-instructed members of the community we expect a 
 more reasonable consideration of this subject. 
 
 Now, if we desired to enable those who are outside of the pro- 
 fession to form an estimate of the amount and the kind of labour 
 performed and endured by our brethren, we should not, for the 
 immediate purpose in view, take them to those spheres of arduous 
 exertion where men are engaged in the duties of practitioners. But 
 to judge whether the professors, and teachers, and learners of medical 
 science and art put themselves in the way of acquiring such knowledge 
 as may best fit them for the fulfilment of the ends of their profession, 
 I should desire to take the inquirer first into our medical schools, and 
 point out the pains taken in teaching and learning the grammar of the 
 art in the work of the dissecting-room, the laboratory, and the museum. 
 I would then advise him to resort to the lecture-rooms, and hear how 
 patiently, and often eloquently, the results of hard scientific investi-
 
 HOW ACTUALLY STUDIED. 
 
 gations and profound reasoning are expounded; and then to the 
 hospital clinique, where the actual sensible facts of morbid nature are 
 at once presented, explained, tracked, and commented upon for the 
 instruction of students. Then I would take him to the private studios, 
 where experimental philosophers are extorting the secrets of nature 
 from nature's own works, by the scalpel, the test-tube, the balance^ 
 and the microscope ; often labouring, month after month, year after 
 year, baffled but not beaten, still toiling on, and even when partially 
 successful waiting till results have been obtained so sure and unques- 
 tionable as to warrant them in undertaking the responsibility of 
 promulgating their observations and conclusions. And then I would 
 have him attend the meetings at which those results are announced, 
 and watch the eager and joyful welcome with which a real addition to 
 our stock of truths, to our practical resources, is hailed, and what 
 jealousy and distrust attend hasty conclusions and questionable inven- 
 tions. And finally, I would persuade him to spend a few days in our 
 libraries and reading-rooms, and point out to him the shelves containing 
 Transactions of Societies, Reports of Hospitals, and Annual Retro- 
 spects, and tell him that there he may find some satisfactory evidence 
 of the amount of intelligence, research, and conscientious endeavour 
 expended in building the art of medicine on firm scientific foundations. 
 
 He will thus find proof enough that the rules of the inductive 
 philosophy have been followed, whether or not they have ended in that 
 which its great regenerator announced as one of its chief aims, " the 
 relief of man's estate." He will find that the facts have at least been 
 drawn from nature, however they may have been arranged ; and that 
 our science does not derive its inspiration from one or two dicta, which 
 are not philosophic truths, but merely strong and rather coarse anti- 
 thetical expressions of some aspects under which certain phenomena 
 may be viewed ; and that it does not seek to curry favour with the 
 uninformed by telling them that they are competent without study to 
 judge of its merits. Its teaching appeals for appreciation to those who 
 are engaged in like pursuits, and who are the only qualified judges of 
 the worth of such labours. 
 
 Should our supposed inquirer take the trouble of doing what we 
 have suggested, we can fancy that he might say : " Now that I see on 
 how rational a basis your art is founded ; now that I am impressed 
 with the thorough going exertion devoted to the study of that wonderful 
 piece of workmanship which you profess to repair and keep in order ;
 
 350 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 BOW that I see with what skill you have unravelled the texture of the 
 organs even to their ultimate molecules, fixed the functions and modes 
 of working of the organs, and are learning more and more every day 
 of the composition of the blood and of that vital chemistry that governs 
 its relations at once to the tissues which it feeds and to the forces which 
 it evolves ; now that I know something of the researches into the 
 operation of those external agents which are ever drawing organisms 
 into life, maintaining their health, driving them into disease, and 
 working their disintegration and death, whether by slowly sapping 
 processes or by specific malignity, or through those mysterious influences 
 whereby epidemics even yet overcome or evade jon ; now that I can take 
 some slight measure of the vast stock of observations on the actual 
 changes which disease makes in the structures, and on the order of the 
 phenomena in dynamical interruptions and aberrations ; some notion 
 of what has been done by sagacious insight and toilsome comparison 
 towards recognising during life those perilous processes which in other 
 cases have left the ruin and ravage which your necroscopy has so 
 painfully traced and so accurately recorded ; now that I know how 
 rigidly, nay sceptically, you have tested the worth of alleged specifics, 
 or general remedies, or methods of cure ; now that I have some faint 
 idea of what your science has done and what it still aspires to do, I 
 marvel that it does not command universal respect and confidence not 
 the superstitious reverence which is given to an authority the limits of 
 which are lost in a cloud of mystery, but the intelligent deference 
 which may be reasonably yielded to superior knowledge and superior 
 resources." 
 
 Now here we have to repress the enthusiasm of the imaginary 
 inquirer, excited as he is by his recent studies and acquirements. He 
 must be reminded that the information of which he has just become 
 posssessed, is precisely of that kind which the public generally cannot 
 acquire. We only wish, and it is not an unreasonable wish, that 
 literary gentlemen who address the public upon medicine in journals 
 which, from the ability with which they are conducted, naturally and 
 deservedly carry a great weight of authority, would prepare themselves 
 for this particular work by a little study of the subject. It is not fair 
 to content themselves with a hasty glance at books so rash, however 
 honest in intention, as Sir John Forbes' s "Nature and Art in the Cure 
 of Disease," or so one-sided as a recent "History of Medicine;" much 
 less to allow themselves to be influenced by the disparaging statements
 
 DIFFICULTIES OF THE ART. 351 
 
 -of writers who are trying to devise new systems in replacement of 
 what they persuade themselves have become old and effete. These 
 dreamers build their airy castles on ruins no less airy and fanciful. 
 The buildings which they mistake for ruins are really substantial and 
 impregnable fortresses. 
 
 But while we maintain that there is a solid scientific foundation for 
 medicine, we do not wish to ignore the difficulties of the art diffi- 
 culties depending on the exceeding complexity of the phenomena to be 
 dealt with. So great is this complexity, that nothing surprises me 
 more than that enlightened physicians should sometimes attempt an 
 extreme simplicity in their aims. Good Heavens ! Does the working 
 of the human machinery turn upon one or two springs or wheels, 
 which are all that are to be handled ? The great variety of chemical 
 elements in the solids and liquids ; the diversity of the organs and 
 their component textures ; the separate and peculiar endowment of the 
 different parts ; the high probability that many a nervous fibril which 
 at present looks homogenous or identical in structure with other fibrils, 
 has its own peculiar life and function ; these and many like considera- 
 tions should warn us against attempting a simplicity for which Nature 
 gives us neither pattern nor warrant. Had she only one or two forces 
 or principles of action in the body, we might be content to pursue 
 methods only eliminative, evacuative, or revulsive, or stimulative, or 
 restorative, or sedative ; but as it is not so, we will pursue all of these 
 and more, if we can find them, and we will not disdain to use specifics 
 if we light on them, though we should prefer to know the rationale of 
 their operation. 
 
 Of the difficulties of the art, there is one which will always present 
 itself even to the most highly educated practitioners ; namely, the 
 individual personality. They may be masters of the genus and 
 species homo ; they may be learned in all his varieties, his races, his 
 variations with climate, and land, and province, and town ; his modifi- 
 cation by civilisation, by birth, by breeding, by intellectual occupation, 
 by trade and calling, by wealth and poverty, by labour and leisure ; 
 but they have still to recognise the individual man. There he is with 
 liis own physiognomy and make and build, the set of his head, the 
 squaring of his shoulders, the curve of his back, the planting of his 
 foot. He walks to the consultation-table, he turns round in his bed, 
 puts out his tongue like no one else. He is John or he is Thomas ; 
 .and he is no other. And his inward man is no less his own and of no
 
 352 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 other. His heart and his lungs and his liver, in the infinite variety of 
 nature, are his own no less than his face. He may behave under the 
 most common disease as no one else does ; and the most ordinary 
 remedies may affect him in a peculiar manner. He may have the apex 
 of one lung just touched with tubercles, and he may die in three 
 months. Or one lung may be full of them, and the other half-full, 
 and he may live three years or more. He may be kept awake by 
 opium, and sent to sleep by coffee, and so on. But here, as in so 
 much else that belongs to Medicine, it is but too easy to make over- 
 statements. The differences of individuality must not be exaggerated ; 
 or we may have to infer that every son of Adam requires an Art of 
 Medicine altogether for himself for his own peculiar use. If the 
 similarity between men and men, and between their relations to other 
 existences, did not prevail enormously over the differences, there could 
 be no general rules to guide the conduct of man towards his fellows. 
 Men could not be fed or trained, or taught, or governed, or healed. 
 It is enough to bear in mind, that there is so much of individuality as 
 must constitute one of those difficulties of the Art, which those beyond 
 the pale of the profession can very inadequately appreciate. 
 
 But nothing more strongly denotes the sagacity of the practitioner, 
 than the quickness with which he apprehends and measures the special 
 requirements of the individual man by help of what he observes, and 
 by what he is told of his patient. Of like value is the tact which 
 enables him to decide that, although of two kinds of treatment in a 
 certain disease one had been successful in eight cases out of ten and 
 the other in only two out of ten, yet in the case before him the second 
 method is to be preferred. Such qualities, together with promptness 
 in determining whether to quiet or lower, or to rouse and sustain ; a 
 wise boldness in setting aside the consideration of the particular patho- 
 logical change for a time, and concentrating the whole attention on the 
 patient these are gifts and acquirements that no mere learning or 
 science can impart. They belong to mother-wit or common sense, and 
 they make the common ground on which the skilful practitioner, and 
 the clever nurse, and the intelligent wife or mother, may meet and 
 work together for the salvation of the patient. It is the want of such 
 qualifications that often deprives the practitioner of the authority and 
 influence that otherwise might be accorded to his learning. 
 
 It is, I once more repeat, more in the practice of the art that 
 medicine is judged of, than in the science which is its rational basis.
 
 CONFIDENCE IN THE ART. 353 
 
 And till something of the latter has been learned by the public, so 
 that the difficulties of the art may be comprehended, till then its 
 occasional shortcomings will sometimes shake the allegiance which is 
 its due, and render some part of the public ready to transfer their 
 trust to systems of arrogant pretensions and of seeming occasional 
 success. 
 
 But in the progress of mankind we may be certain that rational 
 medicine will maintain its supremacy. It is impossible that it should 
 be otherwise. The road which it takes is the right one, and the 
 science must win nearer and nearer to its goal. If Nature is to be 
 made our servant, we must understand her operations. If we wish to 
 employ her powers under new conditions, we must thoroughly know 
 their nature and their extent. The time may seem short in pi-oportion 
 to what has to be learned ; but the time is not to be measured by indi- 
 vidual lives nor even by generations. The poet may complain that 
 " Science moves but slowly, slowly, creeping on from point to point ; " 
 
 but still it does move, and it not only moves, but it moves securely and 
 without fear of retrogression. How securely, no one need doubt or be 
 ignorant who heard or read those masterly expositions at once of its 
 progress and its principles which were delivered before this Association 
 last year ; and like proofs will, I doubt not, abound in the addresses 
 which have been promised for the meetings which are before us. 
 
 These remarks, as you will have noticed, have reference mainly to 
 what there is of speculative scepticism afloat as to the true character of 
 medicine. I need not remind you, on the other hand, of the abundant 
 practical evidences which are presented to us of the public trust in our 
 art. I need not allude to the proofs which meet the busy practitioner 
 in every step of his daily rounds, and in the invasion of his night rest, 
 and which throng in his consultation-room. He might say much of 
 the touching, often painfully touching trust reposed in his skill. Nor 
 is it worth while to dwell on the feelings of the public, as evinced in 
 their anxiety to provide at great cost for their poorer brethren the 
 advantage of medical help in Hospitals and Dispensaries ; or on tho 
 confidence of the Government of the country, as expressed in their 
 appointment of medical officers to the great public services. No naval 
 or military expedition would move without its proper medical staff. 
 And private enterprises are incomplete without a like equipment, from 
 that of the passenger ship that crosses the ocean in a few days, to that 
 
 2 A
 
 354 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 of the travelling amateur who will not trust himself in deserts or even 
 in remote cities without a medical companion. But there is one proof 
 of a most solid and substantial kind as to the confidence placed in 
 medical science, to which I must advert for a moment. It is often said 
 as to political characters, that the statesman who carries the country 
 with him is he on whose wisdom the moneyed class depend, the great 
 authorities in Lombard Street and the Exchange. Now almost every 
 day indications of the faith reposed by this class in medical science, 
 are brought before us in the examinations which we have to make and 
 in the reports to fill up for the security of the enormous wealth which 
 is held by the Insurance Companies. Were medical science a mere 
 collection of doubtful guesses, vague conjectures, traditional prejudices, 
 and ever varying hypotheses, would all this wealth be staked on the 
 opinions of medical referees, opinions founded on facts that have been 
 elicited and even extorted from subjects who are often anxious to con- 
 ceal them ? But I need not pursue this subject. 
 
 Besides other titles to public estimation won by the profession, 
 there is that which is due to the increasing amount of mental culture 
 among our brethren, and which must inevitably lead to their gradual 
 elevation in the social scale. At all periods in the history of our art 
 there have been men eminent at the same time for their professional 
 skill and for their general learning. Dr. Freind thus speaks of some 
 of the Greek physicians : 
 
 " If we compare any of the Greek writers in our faculty, from the very first of 
 them Hippocrates to the time we are now speaking of, with the very best of their 
 contemporaries of any art or profession whatever, they will be found not at all 
 inferior to them, either in the disposition of their matter, the clearness of their 
 reasoning, or the propriety of their language. Some of them have even written 
 above the standard of the age they lived in, an incontestable instance of which is 
 Aretreus. * * * Galen himself was not only the best physician, but the best 
 scholar and writer of his time : so great an honour have these authors done to their 
 profession, by being versed in other arts and sciences as well as their own." (History 
 of Medicine, vol. i., p. 220.) 
 
 It was not less so in later times. Jerome Cardan was so celebrated 
 for his practical skill, that an archbishop of St. Andrew's sent for him 
 from Padua ; and, on his way, the Italian physician prescribed for our 
 poor young king, Edward the Sixth. But he was not less renowned 
 for his learning. He invented a system of arithmetic, and a system of 
 algebra. He wrote treatises on the sphere, on circles, on Ptolemy's
 
 GENEKAL CULTUEE OF PHYSICIANS. 355 
 
 geography, and on Euclid's Elements; also on astrology, on chiro- 
 mancy, on physiognomy, on fate, and on games of chance. Among 
 his miscellaneous works we find mention of epigrams and poems, and 
 of discourses on wisdom, on consolation, and on the immortality of 
 souls. His professional writings were considerable, the chief being a 
 Commentary on Hippocrates; also a work entitled Contradicentia Mcdi- 
 oorum, and another, De Malo Ifedendi Usu. In the 17th century 
 flourished Sir Thomas Browne, author of immortal works, which not 
 only proved him to be master of all the science of his own and of past 
 ages, but which now, after having been for a time partially forgotten, 
 are placed on the same shelf with the best productions of English 
 literature. And in the next century, Dr. Meade was not only the most 
 eminent physician in London, but his name was dear to every one in 
 Europe who cared for science, and learning, and the fine arts. But 
 why should we go for instances beyond our own locality, when we can 
 remember Dr. Prichard, who possessed an amount of knowledge and 
 power that might have been divided amongst several persons, every 
 one of whom would have been endowed sufficiently to attain to high 
 renown in the several departments of science with which Prichard's 
 name is indissolubly united ? Ethnology, the science of language, 
 psychology, and practical medicine, may all point to him as one of the 
 illustrious dead. 
 
 If the present time does not present any instances of various 
 learning, quite comparable to the names which have just been noticed 
 (thoxigh we do not forget the elegant and erudite contributions to 
 science and literature which we owe to the accomplished pen of Sir 
 Henry Holland) ; still, if I do not mistake, there are in this day a far 
 greater number, than at any previous period, of members of the pro- 
 fession fairly imbued with the science and learning of their time. And 
 I think I may venture to add, that there is not now so much reason, as 
 formerly, for fearing the disapproval of the public on this account. It 
 is but too true, that once the general accomplishments of the medical 
 practitioner were regarded with suspicion, as if that man could not be 
 trusted in the exercise of his art who showed a capability of acquiring 
 some knowledge of other subjects, and who made his recreations, and 
 embellished his life, by the study of polite letters and fine arts. In 
 those times he might mount his hunter, or sling his fowling-piece over 
 his shoulder, or walk to the bedside in the attire of a sportsman ; and
 
 356 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 he might spend his evenings in the theatre and the assembly-room, and 
 his nights over whist and billiards ; but were he known to be illustra- 
 ting some obscure point in history, or even elucidating some matters of 
 natural science removed from the duties of his professional routine, 
 his reputation was in peril ; but if he was suspected of an ode or a 
 sonnet, the jeopardy was extreme ! The members of the legal pro- 
 fession were liable to the same suspicion of unfitness for their calling, 
 if they occasionally refreshed their minds with science and literature. 
 But happily we live in wiser and better times ; and now I believe that 
 those among the public whose approbation is worth having, are as 
 ready to confide in a practitioner who shows mental capacity and 
 mentral training in matters of which they are competent to judge, as 
 in one who has merely a character for cleverness in things about which 
 they are unable to form a correct opinion. 
 
 At a first view it might seem that I have spent too much time in 
 
 discoursing, before the members of a learned profession, on such a 
 
 subject as the kind or degree of estimation in which that profession is 
 
 held by the public. Our art being founded on the sure basis of a true 
 
 science, it might seem more worthy of its dignity to be indifferent to 
 
 the opinions of the uninitiated. Bent on the pursuit of truth, we 
 
 should be deaf alike to applause and to disapproval. This might be, 
 
 if the investigations were carried on only in the abstractions of the 
 
 library, or in fields remote from the haunts of men. But the truths 
 
 we seek are for the most part gathered where human beings are thickest, 
 
 and with many of whom we are on terms of closest intimacy. The 
 
 votary of medicine studies amidst the sanctities of hearths that are 
 
 not his own j by bedsides, where husbands and wives, and parents and 
 
 children, in the anguish of their pain or grief, are weighing every 
 
 word he drops are scrutinising the play of every feature in his 
 
 countenance. His philosophy does not range the stars, or dive into 
 
 the recesses of the earth's caverns ; it walks in the trivial paths of 
 
 daily life ; its matter is the commonest experience of suffering men and 
 
 women ; its speculation is mingled with, nay, grows out of and ends 
 
 in the daily duties of the calling by which he earns his bread 
 
 Laborare cst cogitare. 
 
 If, then, we gather our science and reflect upon it, and turn it to 
 its proper uses, in the njidst of our intimate relations with our fellow- 
 creatures, we cannot, by the constitution of our minds, or by the
 
 MOTIVES FOR SUCCESS. 357 
 
 necessity of things, avoid taking account of the opinion -which is held 
 of the science we thus learn, and the art we thus practice. If it is of 
 importance to us, it is equally so -to those we have to deal with. 
 Precepts will not be obeyed, unless their authors are respected. And 
 that that respect should be entertained, I may say, without fear of 
 contradiction, that every medical philosopher, every medical prac- 
 titioner who deserves the name, would gladly see the mass of mankind 
 studying in order to obtain some idea of the principles on which 
 medicine proceeds, and of the methods by which she endeavours to 
 accomplish her purposes. She throws open her studios and workshops, 
 and invites the world to enter. To her mysteries no password is 
 necessary. All who have the requisite knowledge may be free of her 
 guild, and that knowledge may be acquired by all who choose to 
 undergo the necessary labour. 
 
 We do not deny, that, over and above the love of science for its 
 own sake ; over and above the desire of seeing mankind profit by the 
 discoveries and applications of medicine ; over and above the anxiety 
 to obtain independence, or even to succeed in the primitive objects of 
 labouring life ; over and above the simple wish to do our duty ; over 
 and above all these motives there is the aspiration for fame and glory, 
 "that last infirmity of noble minds." A thirst for honour, fame, 
 glory or, if you prefer to call it, a simple love of approbation, is one 
 of the strongest of the springs which give motion to the machinery of 
 human life. It is an instinct implanted in man by his Maker. Like 
 all his instincts, it is to be controlled by reason and to be directed to 
 its legitimate ends ; but still it belongs to the nature of man, and it is 
 not to be ignored, much less to be blamed or derided. All men who 
 do great deeds are moved by it, though some avow the impulse more 
 unreservedly than others ; and I do not doubt that the sentiment 
 smouldered with a strong heat even in the bosom of Wellington, 
 though it did not flame out visibly as in Nelson and Napier. To sup- 
 press it is to do violence to our nature ; to pretend to be above it is the 
 hypocrisy alike of the arrogant self-sufficient stoic, and of the dull 
 .passionless ascetic. To say that it should be subordinate to and con- 
 current with duty, were a needless platitude. Happily, in our profession 
 -the two principles may work co-ordinately and harmoniously. And in 
 the splendid roll of worthies which the annals of our art can display, 
 we may observe with pride how inseparable was their glory from their
 
 358 THE PUBLIC ESTIMATE OF MEDICINE. 
 
 duty, the one sustaining and animating the other. To them might be 
 applied, as truly as to any of the heroes of war or civil fight, those- 
 thrilling words of the Laureate 
 
 " Not once or twice in our fair island story 
 The path of duty was the way to glory; 
 He that ever following her commands, 
 On with toil of heart and knees and hands, 
 Through the long gorge to the far light has won 
 His path upward and prevailed, 
 Shall find the toppling crags of duty scaled, 
 Are close upon the shining table lands, 
 To which our God himself is moon and sun." 
 
 In the foregoing remarks, I have only thought it worth while to- 
 consider the public appreciation of medicine as a science and art. I 
 have said nothing of the position which the profession takes in its 
 moral aspects, and especially in regard to benevolence and charitable 
 action. And nothing needs to be said. It may apply for its character 
 to the public and to a higher tribunal. It may be said, and in all. 
 humility and reverence, that if at some time an account should have to 
 be rendered of the callings to which men have devoted their talents 
 and their exertions, though it may not be demanded what territories 
 have been conquered, what foes subdued; nor by what intellectual 
 mastery the forces of nature have been made subservient to the will of 
 man, or what discoveries have been achieved in science, or what inven- 
 tions in art ; nor what beautiful forms have been fashioned, what 
 glorious thoughts conceived, or in what harmonious words set forth ; 
 nor what polities have been founded, what laws laid down, with what 
 energy enforced, or with what wisdom and eloquence expounded ; nor 
 what indisputable dogmas have been defined, or what casuistical diffi- 
 culties resolved ; but should it be asked, with terrible simplicity, what 
 has your calling done for the afflicted sons of men, for the hungry, the 
 naked, the sick, and the imprisoned? then I do not think much fear 
 need be entertained for the comparative sentence to be awarded to that 
 calling which you and I have the privilege to follow. 
 
 I almost feel that some apology is necessary for having discoursed 
 on such subjects before such an audience as that which I have the 
 honour of addressing. But it seemed to me that, as the well-being of 
 the profession, though depending mainly on its own internal con- 
 stitution, organisation, and conduct, must derive a reflex influence from
 
 OBJECTS OF THE ASSOCIATION. 359 
 
 its relations with the outer world, the consideration of these relations 
 might not be altogether inappropriate to the commencement of the 
 Annual Meeting of an Association, the objects of which are not only 
 the mutual improvement and instruction of its members, and the pro- 
 motion of mutual goodwill, but also the advancement of the character 
 and the elevation of the aims of the profession. Of these, we must 
 all agree in esteeming the highest to be utility to our fellow-creatures. 
 And it cannot be doubted that this utility is in no small degree depen- 
 dent on the estimation in which the profession is held, and on the 
 confidence with which its help is appealed to.
 
 THE HEALTH OF CLIFTON. 
 
 BEAD AT THE MEETING OF THE BRITISH ASSOCIATION, IN 1864, 
 
 AT BATH. 
 
 are many persons who are quite ready to admit the truth 
 of certain numerical results, though unable or unwilling to trace 
 the antecedent arithmetical processes ; but who, nevertheless, not 
 *c unfrequently find that, while in sight of most vivid and definite 
 figures, the facts belonging to them are still somewhat hazy or shadowy, 
 and that X Y Z, even in the face of correlative and unquestionable 
 equations, may still look like unknown or somewhat equivocal charac- 
 ters. On the 6th of August last a severe shock was inflicted on the 
 sanitary sensibilities of Clifton. On that day the readers of the Times 
 beheld the name of Clifton hung up, as it were, on one of the columns 
 of that journal for exposure as one of the most mortal of watering 
 places. The proclamation was an extract from the Registrar- General's 
 Quarterly Report. The feeling in the locality was very like what 
 would thrill the inmates of a nunneiy were they to be told that high 
 authority outside the walls had declared the virtue of their institution 
 to be at no higher a level than that of a penitentiary. There was the 
 Registrar- General's Eeport the figures as plain as the " Mene, mene," 
 on the walls of Babylon, and almost as much in need of interpretation 
 24 in 1,000 is the annual rate of mortality in Clifton. The Isle of 
 Wight has only to answer for 15 in 1,000 ; Newton Abbot, including 
 Torquay, for 16; Cheltenham for 17. "Why," asks the Registrar- 
 General, with Rhadamanthine severity, " why is the mortality of 
 Clifton 24 in 1,000 ?" And this terrible question is asked about Clifton 
 as one of the watering places. The question would be startling
 
 CLIFTOX TI1K WATERING PLACE. 361 
 
 enough to one who has taken only a superficial view of Clifton with its 
 crescents and terraces, and broad avenues running along or just below 
 an elevated ridge of mountain limestone, and abutting on breezy 
 downs, and resting on a soil which in its nature and inclination is 
 singularly unfavourable to the retention of moisture. The question is 
 still more startling to one who observes how large a proportion of the 
 houses must belong to persons in possession of the comforts and luxuries 
 of life, and of the means of preserving health ;* not less startling to 
 one who knows that a thorough system of public sewerage has been 
 completed, and at no small cost to the community ; and most startling 
 of all to those who have been for many years familiar with the diseases 
 of the locality, and who know that in what is understood by Clifton 
 the watering place there are no diseases that can be called endemic ; 
 that typhoid and typhus fevers are of rarest occurrence, and that when 
 occurring they are of extrinsic origin ; that cholera, dysentery, and 
 erysipelas are unknown in their zymotic forms, and that, in short, 
 zymotic diseases, with the exception of measles, scarlatina, and hooping 
 cough, are seldom met with. But the surprise of the numerical state- 
 ment alluded to subsides when it is explained that Clifton in the 
 Registrar-General's report does not mean merely the place which we 
 have just glanced at, but Clifton the watering place, together with a 
 very destitute district in the parish to be noticed presently, and also 
 with a Poor-law district, including five other sub-districts, scattered at 
 considerable intervals over an area of 27,199 acres, and in some parts 
 densely crowded with the poorest of houses and inmates (a large portion 
 not to be surpassed in their destitution by the tenants of the closest 
 and dirtiest quarters of an over-peopled commercial city or sea port) ; 
 these sub-districts making up a population that is almost quintuple the 
 population of Clifton proper. It is true that there is a table in the 
 Registrar's report (which was not published in the Times] which states 
 the annual rates of mortality of several watering places, and of Clifton 
 among them, and in which there is inserted the parenthesis in reference 
 to Clifton, " including a part of Bristol City and Bristol Workhouse." 
 But this is a most inadequate qualification. Clifton of the Registrar- 
 
 * From a table which Mr. Henry Collins, assistant overseer, has been so good as 
 to send me, I find that out of 3,304 houses rated on the last poor rate, those rated 
 above 15 are 2,342, and of these the number rated above i'20 is 1,935. There are 
 738 rated at 10, and of these there are 194 at 5.
 
 362 THE HEALTH OF CLIFTOX. 
 
 General is Clifton, the name of Clifton Poor-law Union. It is Clifton 
 the watering place, plus its own parochial appendages, plus the sub- 
 district of St. Philip and Jacob, with 33,000 inhabitants, nearly three 
 miles distant; plus Ashley, St. Paul, and St. James, with 12,000 
 inhabitants; plus Stapleton, with nearly 10,000 inhabitants, about 
 which sub-district something very special will have to be said ; jjhw 
 Westbury district, with nearly 11,000; plus St. George, numbering 
 more than 10,000 inhabitants. This enumeration reminds one of the 
 prayer of the excellent minister at Rothsay, who called down the 
 blessings of Heaven on his own island, and liberally begged that they 
 might be extended to the adjacent islands of Great Britain and Ireland. 
 But, to return to figures, the population of Clifton, including all that 
 belongs both to the watering place and the parish, is between 22,000 
 and 23,000, while the whole Poor-law district named Clifton Union, a 
 seriously overpowering no-minis umbra, contains nearly 100,000. 
 
 Now, the annual rate of mortality for this union, 24 in 1,000, was 
 calculated from a quarterly return of 587 deaths, which, multiplied by 
 4, gave 2,348 for the year; and this number bears to the population 
 estimated as 99,708, a proportion of 24 in 1,000. But, on inquiring 
 of the Eegistrar of Clifton parish, I found that the deaths were 121 
 in the June quarter. This number, multiplied by 4, and computed in 
 proportion to the population, 22,754, gave an annual rate of 21 in 
 1,000. There is, of course, a great difference of import as to mortality 
 between 21 in 1,000 and 24 in 1,000. But, on looking further, I found 
 that vast differences in the ratios of annual mortality will appear if you 
 take the quarterly figure for a type. For example, the quarterly 
 return for Clifton parish in June last year was 101, which, treated in 
 like manner, yields an annual rate of only 18 in 1,000. But take the 
 return, 79, for the March quarter in the year before (1862), and with 
 the same mode of calculation you have an annual death-rate of only 
 14-8, a lower figure than that of the Isle of Wight death-rate in the 
 Kegistrar-GeneraPs table of watering-places. The actual number of 
 deaths in Clifton parish in the whole year of 1863 was exceptionally 
 high, for it was 465. This is at the rate of 21 in 1,000. But in 1862 
 it was only 365, which, reckoning the population at 22,000, would 
 make a death-rate of only 16 in 1,000. In the year before, the deaths 
 were only 329, and those bore a proportion to the population of only 
 15 in 1,000. But the question might, perhaps, be asked does not the
 
 CLIFTON, THE UNION AND THE PARISH. 365 
 
 increased mortality of last year, of 21 in 1,000, argue the increase of 
 some local morbific cause ? Were this the case it would be a curious 
 result of increased attention among all classes to sanitary improve- 
 ments, and just when extensive drainage works have been completed. 
 It certainly does not seem fair to affix a sort of sanitary reputation to 
 a place for good or for ill, founded on the return of deaths for one 
 year, much less for one quarter. Thus, the annual death-rate for 
 Cheltenham, calculated from the quarter ending June, 1864, is only 17 
 in 1,000. But, if a like list of watering-places had been made out 
 last year, on like principles that is, with annual death-rates calculated 
 from the quarterly return for June Cheltenham would have appeared 
 with 21 in 1,000 against it exactly the mortality assigned to Clifton 
 parish by a calculation for the corresponding quarterly return in the 
 present year, or for the exceptionally large number of deaths in 1863 ; 
 while the death-rate of Clifton parish, founded on the quarterly return 
 of June, 1863 (viz., 101), would have been only 18 in 1,000 ; and as I 
 have already said if founded on the actual annual return of 1861 it 
 would have been only 15 in the 1,000. 
 
 Before examining some other facts in reference to the figures 
 belonging to the Clifton Union it is right that I should say something 
 more respecting the death-rate of Clifton Parish. Whether it has been 
 in one year as low as 15 in 1,000, and in another year as high as 21, 
 the mortality derives its largest contributions from a locality out of 
 sight or unknown to most visitors to Clifton. It is an appendage 
 rather to Bristol than to Clifton, being inhabited by poor artisans and 
 labourers, many of them in connection with the sea-port. It is in the 
 immediate neighbourhood of the Hotwell Road which runs along the 
 edge of the floating harbour, formerly the bed of the river Avon, for 
 which a new channel was cut early in the present century. The houses 
 are built in groups characteristic of the worst arrangement of houses 
 in crowded cities, where space is economised at the cost of ventilation 
 and cleanliness. The houses in Hotwell Road and certain other 
 situations belong to what may be called the low level of Clifton parish, 
 and, though the number of the houses is very small in proportion to 
 those distributed over Upper Clifton, the whole deaths in the said dis- 
 trict are nearly a third more, and the deaths from zymotic diseases 
 nearly quadruple those in the upper parts. And it cannot be doubted 
 that were the Board of Health to insist on the correction of sanitary 
 evils in this district the death-rate of Clifton parish would bear a com-
 
 364 THE HEALTH OF CLIFTON. 
 
 parison with, that of the most healthy district in Great Britain. Even 
 now the annual average death-rate calculated from the deaths in the 
 five years from 1859 to 1861 is only 17 ia 1,000. 
 
 I have shewn how Clifton proper is confounded in the registration 
 tables with Clifton Union. This is no fault of the Registrar-General. 
 The misrepresentation and the injury must be laid at the door of the 
 Poor-law Board. But they thus afford an illustration of the impor- 
 tance of appending full verbal explanations to figures. A painfully 
 striking example of this was presented during the epidemic of cholera 
 in 18-19. It was the custom at that time to publish in the newspapers 
 daily reports of the number of deaths from cholera in every district 
 where the pestilence was prevailing. In these lists Clifton made a 
 ghastly figure, but it was not Clifton the watering-place, which, in 
 fact, had only one death from cholera during the whole epidemic. The 
 numerical statement belonged to Clifton Union, but, the distinction 
 having been only occasionally made in the journals, the public in 
 general were under the impression that the deaths occurred in the 
 watering-place, which was, therefore, very naturally shunned, as if 
 woefully plague-stricken. 
 
 I cannot forbear adducing another instance of the importance of 
 adding explanatory statements to figures. It is connected with the 
 meteorological tables of Clifton. The figures representing Clifton are 
 supplied by Mr. Burder, an ardent and industrious cultivator of 
 meteorological science. His instruments are set up at the very extreme 
 edge of an outlying new district of Clifton. This situation is much 
 more exposed to cold winds than are those older parts of Clifton, 
 which have for so long a time been the resort of persons seeking a 
 comparatively mild climate for the winter. No such invalids would be 
 directed by medical advisers, acquainted with the locality, to choose 
 the situation just noticed, though it is in many respects a pleasant and 
 healthy site. Another set of meteorological figures have been taken 
 for many years in a part which is better known as Clifton (in a garden 
 just below the crest of the hill), and under the direction of Mr. \V. 
 Giles, who has paid great attention to this branch of natural science. 
 In both situations the observations are made with the best instruments, 
 -and registered with great care and fidelity. As might have been 
 expected from the difference of sites, the minimum readings are nearly 
 always lower in the more exposed of these situations. The difference 
 of the minimum is sometimes as much as three degrees, and seldom
 
 SUB-DISTRICTS OF THE UNION. 365 
 
 less than two. Thus, for example, in the year 1862 the lowest degree 
 in Clifton proper was 22 ; but in the Registrar-General's report for 
 Clifton it was 19-4. In the year 1863 the lowest reading in the former 
 situation was 29. In the Registrar-General's table it was 26-7. Now, 
 a difference of three degrees in a minimum will tell very much on the 
 character of a place as to mildness, and in the following manner: 
 The public eye does not catch figures representing mean temperatures, 
 though these are more important to scientific observers. If it did, the- 
 public mind would not, perhaps, think so much of extreme thermome- 
 trical readings when estimating the qualities of a climate. But when 
 a summary is published in the newspapers, telling how the thermometer 
 on some particular day fell as low as so-and-so in such-and-such places 
 a locality that has previously enjoyed, and with reason, a good repu- 
 tation for mildness, may, by dropping into such a catalogue, suffer a 
 considerable reduction of public estimation. Into such a list Clifton 
 has once or twice fallen by help of the Registrar-General's figures, 
 taken from a spot which does not fairly represent Clifton. This, then, 
 is another instance in which figures may inflict a wrong for want of" 
 verbal explanation. 
 
 I return to the registration of deaths in the sub-districts of Clifton 
 Union. One of them is called Stapleton sub-district, taking its name 
 from a village about three miles from Clifton proper. In this sub- 
 district are included Mlton and Stoke Gifford, and "Winterbourne^ 
 villages two or three miles apart, and the most remote being nearly 
 ten miles from Clifton. The tourist driving through them is charmed 
 with the beautiful scenery the upland lawns, the undulating meadows, 
 noble trees, comfortable cottages, flourishing farms, and other signs of 
 a purely rural district. Here, at least, in this all but Arcadian region, 
 we shall find mortality reduced to the minimum compatible with human 
 destiny. But, alas ! on consulting the register we find an appalling 
 death-rate. Calculated as before, from the Registrar-General's type, 
 the quarterly return of June, 1864, the annual ratio is no less than 45 
 in 1,000 for this Stapleton sub-district. Malarious swamps, stagnant 
 pools, rotting pig-styes, and farm-yard abominations start up in succes- 
 sion before the mind to account for such ravages in Arcady. There 
 are, however, no such causes in existence, and it is quite needless to 
 draw upon the imagination. The anomaly is solved by the simple 
 information that in Stapleton parish stands the poorhouse of the whole 
 Clifton district Union, also the poorhouse of the whole city of Bristol,
 
 366 THE HEALTH OF CLIFTON. 
 
 also the Public Lunatic Asylum of Bristol, which, three institutions, 
 having their dead registered in Stapleton sub -district, might swell the 
 mortuary returns of the most healthful locality to a frightful figure. 
 Deducting the contributions from those establishments, the deaths in 
 1861, instead of 334, would have been only 113 ; in 1862, instead of 
 318, they would have been 142; and in 1863, instead of 337, they 
 would have been only 146. The death-rate for 1861 would have been 
 about 13 in 1,000; in 1862, from 14 to 15 ; and in 1863, 15. 
 
 In returning to the question of the Registrar-General, put so pro- 
 minently, " Why is the mortality of Clifton (meaning Clifton Union) 
 24 in 1,000?" let us consider the sub-district of St. Philip and St. 
 Jacob. It used to be entitled the out-parish of those saints, being the 
 extension beyond the city boundaries of the parish so named. It is a 
 wide, dreary region, tenanted by the poorest of artisans and labourers, 
 and the nameless multitude whose means of existence are mysteries. 
 Into it overflows, and collects and ferments, much of the scum of 
 Bristol poverty. St. Philip and St. Jacob might patronise poverty, and 
 dirt, and destitution, with as good a title as St. Francis of Assissi. If 
 an earnest preacher in a Bristol pulpit wishes to call up images of 
 misery, he evokes them from the parish of St. Philip and St. Jacob. 
 Some of the most hard-working clergy and ministers of all denomi- 
 nations, and lay preachers, and charitable visitors spend their powers, 
 and their means, with unwearying self-denial, many for a lifetime, and 
 feel that there is still a vast mass of wretchedness which they cannot 
 remove, and can scarcely lighten. This sub-district, being too large to 
 be included in Bristol city, is added to the Clifton Union, though dis- 
 tant more than two miles from Clifton the watering-place. It numbers 
 between 32,000 and 33,000 inhabitants, and, after what I have said of 
 the poverty of the district, it is not to be wondered at that the mor- 
 tality may be reckoned at 26 in 1,000 for the June quarter of the 
 present year. But, strange to say, there was a quarterly return in 
 1862 which would have made the annual rate only 15 in 1,000, while 
 in one of the quarters of last year the calculation would have given 
 32. But the actual deaths for the year 1863 would make 28 in 1,000. 
 
 There is another sub-district called Westbury. It includes Hen- 
 bury and Compton, two rural localities, unburthened with union or 
 city poorhouses. The annual death-rate, computed upon the quarterly 
 return, June, 1864, amounts to only 16 in 1,000. But, if the quarterly 
 return for September, 1862, had been selected, the death-rate would
 
 MOETALITY OF CLIFTON PROPER. 367 
 
 have been only 9 in 1,000. The quarter June, 1863, would, however, 
 have given 18 in 1,000. The rate, calculated from the annual deaths 
 in 1861, 1862, and 1863, is between 15 and 16 in 1,000. 
 
 The sub-district called Ashley partakes of both rural and urban 
 qualities, and contains a population of mixed character in regard to 
 the possession of the comforts of life. The mortality computed from 
 the quarterly return for June, 1864, would be 21 in 1,000. The actual 
 deaths in 1863 make the mortality 22 in 1,000 ; in 1862, 19 in 1,000 ; 
 and in 1861 only 18. A portion of this sub-district contains a town 
 population (the parish of St. Paul and St. James) of much the same 
 quality as that of St. Philip and St. Jacob, and the mortality of this 
 part counteracts the lower ratio that would be yielded by the more 
 rural districts of Horfield and Ashley. 
 
 The sub-district of St. George is peopled mainly by persons of the 
 poorer class, but their dwellings are more scattered than in most 
 suburbs. The people are chiefly colliers and labourers, many of the 
 latter being agricultural. The sanitary advantages of avoiding the 
 congregation of dwellings in small areas is illustrated by the compara- 
 tively moderate death-rate. The mortality for the June quarter, 1864, 
 would give an annual rate of 20-60 in 1,000. The actual deaths in 
 1863 make the ratio 23 in 1,000, in 1862 only 18, and in 1861 19. 
 Contrast with these the ratios for the same years in St. Philip and St. 
 Jacob. They are respectively 28, 20, and 24 in 1,000. 
 
 Having thus briefly considered the sub-districts, let us return to 
 Clifton Union. When clearing Clifton Proper from the stigma attached 
 to Clifton Union I admitted the number 24 in 1,000 as the death-rate 
 belonging to the latter, calculated from the quarterly return for June, 
 1864. But even here it may be shewn that it is possible to paint the 
 Prince of Darkness blacker than his real complexion. If you take the 
 actual deaths in the years 1861, 1862, and 1863 it will be found that 
 the ratios are respectively 21, 20, and 25 in 1,000. The mean of these 
 is 22. So the jet black of 24 is brought up to the bistre of 22. But 
 if you take in the years of 1859 and 1860 there is a still further miti- 
 gation, for then the average of the five years gives 20 4-5ths. Again, 
 the parish of St. Philip and St. Jacob has, as we have seen, for the 
 years 1860, 1861, and 1862, 24 in 1,000; but if we take also the 
 years 1859-60 the average annual mortality drops down to 21 4-5ths. 
 I think a sufficient answer has now been given to the Eegistrar- 
 GeneraTs query, "Why is the mortality of Clifton 24 in 1,000?"
 
 368 THE HEALTH OF CLIFTON. 
 
 calculated as this ratio is from a quarter of exceptional mortality, and 
 brought up to this high figure by quotas of extrinsic origin, for which 
 Clifton Proper, or Clifton the watering-place, with its average mor- 
 tality of only 17 in 1,000, is not otherwise answerable than as having 
 been unfortunately compelled to share its name with a wide, populous, 
 and in some sub-divisions, a very destitute Poor-law district. It will 
 have been noticed that in the foregoing remarks great stress has been laid 
 on town pauperism. In rural districts there is, of course, pauperism 
 also. But the sanitary evils incident to poverty tell with much greater 
 force on life in towns than in the country ; for in the former the evils 
 of defective house drainage, of the crowding of residents in small 
 tenements, of ill-ventilation, and of scanty or xinwholesome food and 
 drink, are all concentrated and enhanced by the aggregation of such 
 houses in small spaces. The occupants of the meanest cottages in the 
 smallest village are more or less, during the day, inhaling the freshest 
 air of Heaven in the open fields. But the town artizan or labourer 
 passes from his miasmatous home into a workshop or beerhouse where 
 the air is scarcely, if at all, less impure. The sub-district of St. Philip 
 and Jacob, for example, will doubtless have its mortality lessened by 
 the completion of the public drainage works which are in progress ; 
 but still the condition of the inhabitants, as to their dwellings, their 
 clothing, their food, their fuel, and their habits, must, if unaltered, 
 keep up a high figure in the death-rate. 
 
 It has been seen to be unsafe, not to say unfair, to compute from a 
 quarterly return the mortality of any particular locality, and contrast 
 it with that of another locality, reckoned in the same manner. 
 Zymotic diseases are apt to visit localities in succession rather than 
 contemporaneously. Thus twenty or thirty deaths from scarlatina 
 added to the ordinary mortality of a quarter in district A may give a 
 figure which multiplied by four yields a ghastly annual death-rate, 
 and district B shines brightly in contrast. But in two or three quarters 
 the contrast becomes reversed, when B has been visited by a like pest. 
 Thus Exeter, in the years 1861, 1862, and 1863, had a mortality which 
 gave a yearly average of 23 in 1,000, but, were the mortality reckoned 
 from the two quarters of the present year, it would rise to nearly 
 28 in 1,000. 
 
 It is interesting to compare the death-rates of different districts 
 according as the population is purely urban, or all but purely rural, or 
 mixed. Thus
 
 COMPARISON OF DEATH-RATES. 
 
 369 
 
 Towns. 
 
 Bristol 27 
 
 .Exeter 24 
 
 Worcester . ..23 
 
 Kural. 
 
 Thornbury 17 
 
 Kingsbridge, 18 
 
 Pershore .. 17 
 
 Mixed. 
 
 Clifton Union 21 
 
 Tiverton 21 
 
 Bromsgrove 20 
 
 The mixed populations have thus an intermediate mortality. And 
 .if we add up the death-rates of unlike districts we obtain corresponding 
 .averages. Thus 
 
 Exeter 24 
 
 Kingsbridge 18 
 
 Plymouth 24 
 
 Crediton .. ,.18 
 
 Bristol 27 
 
 Thornbury 17 
 
 Gloucester 22 
 
 'Stow-on-the-Wold ... 18 
 
 4)84 
 21 
 
 4)84 
 21 
 
 Worcester 23 
 
 Pershore 17 
 
 Stourbridge 23 
 
 Evesham 18 
 
 4)81 
 20i 
 
 Or take 5 of the sub -districts of Clifton Union, excluding Stapleton, 
 because of Bristol City Poorhouse 
 
 Clifton Proper , 17 
 
 Ashley 18 
 
 St. George 20 
 
 St. Philip and Jacob 21 
 
 Westbury 15 
 
 5)01 
 
 18 l-5th 
 
 In Clifton proper Town but buildings good sites open some 
 poverty ; Ashley semi-rural more poverty ; St. George semi-rural 
 more poverty ; St. Philip and St. Jacob much more town much 
 more poverty ; Westbury rural chiefly some poverty. Crowding 
 and poverty together cause the highest death-rates. Ashley and St. 
 George are not very unequal in rural qualities, but the poverty is 
 greater in St. George's, and the death-rate is 20 against 18 in Ashley. 
 The influence of these two causes is illustrated by the death-rates in 
 the sub-districts of the old city of Bristol 
 
 1. St Mary Redcliff 24 
 
 2. Castle Precincts 29 
 
 3. St. Paul 23 
 
 4. St. James 30 
 
 5. St. Augustine .. , 20 
 
 5) 132 
 
 20 25-tbs 
 
 N.B. The mortality in 2 and 4 is increased by the deaths in a vrorkhouse anil 
 in the Pioyal Infirmary. 
 
 2 B
 
 370 THE HEALTH OF CLIFTON. 
 
 This very humble contribution to statistical science, which has 
 chiefly aimed at illustrating the importance of appending full verbal 
 explanations to numerical statements, has turned almost entirely on 
 death-rates. With the resources at present at command they afford us 
 as much explicit information as can be obtained regarding the sanitaiy 
 character of the locality. But I agree with the opinion expressed by 
 my friend Mr. Eumsey in an able paper read before the Social Science 
 Association at Bradford, that they are, after all, but imperfect exponents 
 of the health and well-being of a community. We need some nearer 
 term to Birth than its last antithesis Death. Between those extreme 
 points lies a vast amount of human happiness and human misery 
 which it would be desirable, whether possible or not, to gauge by such 
 exact measures as we look for in statistics. Passing from Birth to 
 Death the eye surveys on the one hand enjoyment, especially that 
 enjoyment which depends on consciously vigorous action with an 
 object, on the prosecution of worthy toils, and on the pursuit of 
 honourable ambitions, and on the other hand it discerns suffering, 
 infirmity, needs and desires struggling with incapacity, plans and pur- 
 poses falling away from nerveless limbs, weakened wills, and worn-out 
 powers, and a grisly train of maladies more terrible than pestilences 
 because they are neither curable nor necessarily mortal. Of those 
 opposite fates of a community, making birth and death respectively a 
 blessing or a curse, a calamity or a consolation, we must know some- 
 thing more than what we know as yet if we would judge of the 
 condition of a people. But such information the Registrar- General 
 cannot impart, unless the public should so desire to receive it that 
 they will be willing to have the public finances charged with large 
 sums in the employment of an extensive sanitary organisation for 
 reporting carefully from every locality, how air, and water, and soil, 
 and food, and clothing, and occupations, and habits, and amusements, 
 have told favourably or hurtfully on health and happiness. All 
 honour to the President of this section for the immense energy and 
 untiring patience with which he has exerted his remarkable powers in 
 proving and illustrating the vital importance of vital statistics ! Seeing 
 how much he has accomplished with so imperfect a machinery, it is 
 impossible not to wish that his genius might enjoy ampler scope, and 
 have better materials to work on. Certainly, one would wish that the 
 classification of numerical returns representing all the elements of the 
 social life of our people should not be compelled to follow Poor-law
 
 IMPORTANCE OF COMPLETE STATISTICS. 371 
 
 lines and limitations, which, however suitable to Poor-law purposes, 
 may cause figures to express something very different from what would 
 be their meaning, were the facts which they number grouped in 
 accordance with scientific requirements rather than with the convenience 
 of a special branch of national registration. Then the numerical 
 death-rate of an ancient crowded city would express the mortality in , 
 that city, including items that are now transferred to a rural district, 
 or appended to a healthy watering place. The numerical death-rate 
 of a village would mean the mortality of that village, unswollen by 
 the deaths in a city poorhouse. And the numerical death-rate of a 
 watering place would express the mortality in that watering place 
 simply, neither complicated with the mortality of distant rural retreats, 
 nor burdened with that of the sickly suburbs of a crowded city.
 
 ON MEDICAL EVIDENCE 
 
 IN 
 
 BELATION TO STATE MEDICINE. 
 
 BEFORE offering any remarks on the subject of the discussion in 
 ^ which we are about to be engaged, I beg to be allowed to say 
 $$ that, though I accepted the duty which the Committee of 
 
 "^ Management* did me the honour of confiding to me, yet it must 
 not be inferred from their appointment, or from my acceptance of it, 
 that the subject is one that has attracted or received my attention in 
 any particular manner. I profess to treat of Medical Evidence in 
 relation to State Medicine with about as much knowledge of it, and 
 with as much reflection upon it, as may have been all but forced on 
 the observation and thought of any one who has been working in the 
 practice of our profession for a considerable number of years. Perhaps, 
 therefore, my views, representing as it were the average experience 
 and thought of the profession, may be more appropriate to the com- 
 mencement of this debate than if I were in the possession of any 
 peculiar amount of knowledge, or the propounder of any peculiar 
 schemes of improvement. Not but that, as you will find, I entertain 
 some rather decided opinions as to reforms that are required. 
 
 I think we must be all agreed that medical evidence in courts of 
 law is not what we could wish it to be, whether with reference to what 
 is just and what is creditable to the profession, or to what is required 
 by the interests of the public. And, first, let us consider it with respect 
 to ourselves our character, rights, and interests. 
 
 * This Paper was read at the Annual Meeting of the British Medical Association 
 in 1865. Ed.
 
 DIFFICULTIES OF GIVING EVIDENCE. 373 
 
 Medical evidence in general that is, with the exception of the 
 evidence specially given by experts is mixed evidence. It is partly 
 common, and partly professional or scientific; for it testifies both to 
 what might have been seen and heard by any person who happened to 
 be present at certain transactions, and also to what could have been 
 correctly observed only by instructed senses. Likewise, it embraces 
 inferences from the facts observed inferences that have the authority 
 of the presumed scientific judgment belonging to a well-informed 
 practitioner of medicine. 
 
 The quasi-scientific evidence of the medical witness is not delivered 
 in the form of a written report, carefully considered and carefully 
 expressed ; but it is given memoriter, vivd voce, and for the most part in 
 answer to questions propounded by persons to whom the subject is 
 new, and to be heard and understood and estimated by persons who 
 have no knowledge whatever of the subject scientifically considered. 
 
 The evidence, though often involving nice and scientific distinctions 
 both as to description and as to inference of cause and effect, has to 
 be delivered by the medical witness in language as free as possible 
 from the terminology through which much of his professional know- 
 ledge was learned, and which very terminology was invented to convey 
 knowledge which could not be expressed with requisite precision in 
 common language. 
 
 Again, the evidence is often of a kind that involves minute investi- 
 gations, and an exact knowledge of subjects that may not be actually 
 required by a medical man more than once or twice in a lifetime, 
 however experienced and eminent he may be as a practitioner. He may 
 have got up the subject thoroughly when going through his academic 
 curriculum, and he may be an old man before he has had to draw 
 upon such knowledge for juridical purposes. It may have been as 
 latent, or unemployed, or well-nigh forgotten, as the processes and 
 foramina of the spenoid bone or the reflections of the peritoneum ; or 
 as the natural history of some plant, in some remote corner of the 
 globe, that furnished some dusty old drug once in favour with doctors ; 
 or as the composition of some obsolete but once fashionable pharma- 
 ceutical formula. Which of us would like to have to recount on a 
 sudden the ingredients of pulvis contrayervso compositus ? And which 
 of us would like to have to tell all the proofs that an infant had never 
 lived an extrauterine life ?
 
 374 ON MEDICAL EVIDENCE. 
 
 Let me endeavour to relieve the dulness of this part of my com- 
 munication, by relating what on one occasion passed between a most 
 eminent member of the legal profession and myself, not in a court of 
 law, though at a public meeting. After a learned and highly interest- 
 ing lecture on certain points of the English language, delivered at 
 the Bristol Institution, by the Eev. J. Earle, formerly Professor of 
 Anglo-Saxon at Oxford, a vote of thanks to the lecturer was pro- 
 posed by a legal friend, a gentleman not more eminent by the high 
 office which he holds, than distinguished by the ability and philan- 
 thropic zeal with which he has instigated various social reforms. In 
 the course of some most valuable remarks on language, he said that 
 those spoke best, and with most clearness and precision, who thought 
 least of the effect which what they were saying would produce upon 
 their hearers ; and he declared that it was the want of such uncon- 
 sciousness that made medical witnesses the worst of all witnesses in 
 courts of law. And he clenched his remarks by alluding with playful 
 malice (seeing that many of his medical friends were present) to a 
 very sarcastic account of medical evidence in cases of lunacy with 
 which a Lord Chancellor amused the House of Lords a few years ago. 
 It happened to be my duty to second the vote of thanks ; and I should 
 have been a recreant had I not availed myself of the opportunity of 
 endeavouring to wipe away the aspersions cast by my learned friend 
 on the character of medical witnesses. I ventured to say that, what- 
 ever psychological or philological truth there might be in the remark 
 that a speaker should be free from self-consciousness or thought in 
 regard to the effect of his words, yet my learned friend had omitted to 
 mention the chief causes of the disadvantageous figure made by 
 medical witnesses, which was, that they had to speak of things about 
 which their audience, including the simple-minded jurors, the quick- 
 witted gentlemen of the bar, and even the august occupants of the 
 bench, were profoundly ignorant ; and, moreover, that such witnesses 
 had to translate as they were speaking, to put aside the language in 
 which their professional knowledge and ideas most naturally flowed, 
 and to accommodate what they had to say not only to the uninstructed 
 understanding of their hearers, but also to the vernacular language ; 
 that, in the course of this process, much might be lost both of force 
 and accuracy ; and that the process required some presence of mind, 
 especially under cross-examination, which mental quality was not likely
 
 NOT FAIRLY REMUNERATED. 375 
 
 to be aided by a severe injunction from the bench to give a plain 
 answer to a plain question, or by an ironical petition from counsel that 
 the witness should for the time being disencumber himself of his 
 superfluous learning, and condescend to the language of ordinary 
 mortals. And, as to the allusion to the Lord Chancellor's mocking 
 description of medical evidence, I could only say that, till I read his 
 lordship's speech, I did not think that even a Lord Chancellor could, 
 upon a medical subject, display so singular a lack of information. 
 After the meeting my friend told me that what I had said was not 
 only fair in the way of retort upon an antagonist, but also that it was 
 strictly and literally true. 
 
 I cannot leave the discussion of this part of my subject, the 
 unsatisfactory position of medical witnesses as seen from our side, the 
 side of the profession, without touching on the injustice with which 
 they are treated as to remuneration for the professional evidence which 
 they give, and for their loss of time. Were their evidence only such 
 as might be imparted by ordinary spectators of a transaction, they 
 would not be entitled to more consideration than the latter, who have 
 only to tell truthfully what they have seen and heard. But when a 
 man has to enlighten the court with knowledge derived from his art, 
 and resulting from laborious and (it may be) refined researches for the 
 elucidation of the point at issue ; and when, owing to the difficulties 
 incident to speaking in a witness-box, he may incur the risk of having 
 his professional reputation seriously damaged by the reckless attacks 
 of a counsel who does not hesitate to sacrifice any individual to the 
 cause of a client, it is certainly hard that for all his trouble and danger 
 he should receive no higher compensation than if he had testified to 
 having seen one Thomas Hodge stealing stakes out of a fence. Yet 
 such is the fact. A surgeon to a hospital who, almost every day, 
 devotes a vast amount of time and skill to the gratuitous relief of the 
 poor, may be summoned to a court twenty or thirty miles distant from 
 the sphere of his practice, and be kept for two days from his patients, 
 in order that he may help the jury to decide whether a man died in the 
 said hospital from the effects of a blow on the head received in a brawl, 
 or from the effects of his previous habits of drunkenness. 
 
 Many grievances of like kind might be adduced. I will give only 
 one other example. A friend of mine in large practice, Mr. Greig of 
 Clifton, was subpoenaed upon a trial in the Court of Queen's Bench.
 
 376 ON MEDICAL EVIDENCE. 
 
 A gentleman, who had formerly been under my friend's care, resisted 
 the exorbitant claim of an empiric, to whose treatment he had foolishly 
 submitted himself. Mr. Greig was for two days dancing attendance 
 on the court, to the very serious inconvenience to himself and his 
 patients ; and, after all, no trial took place, and he received only a very 
 paltry sum for his expenses. Yet his evidence, if called for, would 
 have been purely scientific evidence as to the condition of the defen- 
 dant's health. 
 
 I think I have read somewhere that medical men ought not to 
 complain of these public requisitions, because forsooth they are 
 generously exempted by the State from certain offices or services 
 which might interfere with their professional duties ; for example, 
 they are not called upon to act as jurors, nor to collect taxes, nor are 
 they drafted for the militia. But it is obvious that these exemptions 
 are quite as important to the welfare of the public as to the convenience 
 of our profession. Besides, they are not peculiar to medical men. 
 There is a long list of classes of persons equally exempt, and among 
 them are practising barristers and attorneys. Has any one sufficient 
 power and liveliness of imagination to conceive that these latter 
 gentlemen would bestow gratuitous services on the public in courts of 
 law in consideration of their exemption from certain public demands 
 for services, which exemption they share with medical men ? Fancy 
 how the Temple and Lincoln's Inn and Westminster Hall would ring 
 with inextinguishable laughter at a proposal so unspeakably ridiculous ! 
 
 Let us now consider our subject from another point of view that 
 occupied by the public ; and it will scarcely appear more satisfactory. 
 First, it cannot be satisfactory to the public to observe the chances run 
 by justice in the accidents of a coroner's inquest. The important 
 evidence to be delivered by the medical witness has to be elicited by 
 the questions of the coroner and the jurymen. The explanation of 
 the witness are often scanty and imperfect when freed from technical 
 details ; and confounding and bewildering when imparted with the 
 fulness and minuteness which such an inquiry demands. 
 
 But, perhaps, under no circumstances does medical evidence appear 
 to more disadvantage in the eye of the public, than when, in criminal 
 trials, members of our profession give conflicting opinions. In trials 
 for murder, was the perpetrator of the crime so far disabled by mental 
 disease as to be irresponsible for his actions ? Did the deceased person
 
 OFTEN INEVITABLY CONFLICTING. 377 
 
 die of natural disease, or of the effect of injuries ? of disease or of 
 poison? It has often been very difficult for the laity to judge on 
 which of the conflicting opinions most reliance is to be placed. And 
 the difficulty is often still greater in civil suits ; as when one eminent 
 medical witness declares that a person was competent to the making of 
 a will, or to the management of his affairs, and another, equally 
 eminent, no less emphatically denies it ; or when one pronounces, in 
 an action for nuisance, that a miasm or the product of a manufacturing 
 process is deleterious to the health of a neighbourhood, and another 
 assures the court that such agency is innocuous or even salutary ; or 
 when, in an action for mala praxis, one witness approves and another 
 condemns the treatment of a patient whose fractured limb has left him 
 lame for life. 
 
 In many of such cases a difference of opinion is almost inevitable. 
 There are probabilities on either side ; and the preponderance will be 
 determined differently by different minds. In all departments of 
 science, in theology, in law itself, such differences arise ; and it is no 
 special reproach to medical science that it has not attained to a precision, 
 or an exemption from doubt and controversy, that can be predicated of 
 very few departments of human knowledge. 
 
 But, notwithstanding the doubtfulness and ambiguity belonging to 
 certain questions, it cannot but be regretted that such conflicts as I 
 have hinted at occur so frequently ; and I think it must appear to us 
 that they are susceptible of abatement. Some diminution is to be 
 expected from the advance of our knowledge, and its increased exacti- 
 tude. Improvement in this direction will require time ; but it is for 
 the Association to consider whether some amendment might not be 
 effected by changes in the mode of obtaining medical evidence in legal 
 cases of all kinds. It seems to me that the dissatisfaction of the pro- 
 fession and the dissatisfaction of the public the causes for both of 
 which I have so slightly sketched might be obviated by certain reforms 
 in medico-legal processes ; reforms that might be worthily inaugurated 
 and promoted by the force of this great Association. On this subject 
 I will venture to throw out one or two suggestions. First, then, I 
 would say that, considering the enormous interests involved in medical 
 evidence, considering the complexity and intricacy of the questions 
 belonging to it and the processes for solving them ; considering, also, 
 the importance of having such questions treated by men of special
 
 378 ON MEDICAL EVIDENCE. 
 
 culture and training, of minds and avocations free from the embarrass- 
 ment, fatigue, engrossment, and distraction, contingent upon ordinary 
 medical practice I cannot but think that it would be highly conducive 
 to the public good, and that it would be most advantageous to our 
 profession (for it would relieve individuals from anxiety, vexation, and 
 peril to fame and fortune, now too often forced upon them, and remove 
 from the profession generally the chances of unjust reproach, ridicule, 
 and obloquy) were the State to appoint medical officers whose duty it 
 should be to assist, or advise, or altogether supersede the ordinary 
 practitioners in the conduct of medico-forensic inquiries. The medical 
 practitioner has, in the discharge of his ordinary duties, enough of 
 solicitude and painful responsibility without the addition of forensic 
 functions ; and it may be confidently affirmed that, after taking into 
 consideration the amount of unpaid or miserably ill-paid service 
 rendered by the profession to the public, they would be asking for 
 bare justice in begging to have their extra duties removed or made 
 more tolerable. But, as I have said, a reform in this matter concerns 
 the interests of the public no less than those of the profession.* 
 
 Within easy reach of every practitioner there should be a state 
 officer, to whom the former could refer in a difficulty, or to whom he 
 might relegate the conduct of a medico-legal investigation. Setting 
 aside all cases in which public inquiry is inevitable, I ask my experienced 
 brethren whether cases have not more than once occurred under their 
 observation in regard to which it would have been an unspeakable 
 relief to them to have been able to confer with a person of authority, 
 and thus to divide the responsibility, whether of initiating a delicate 
 and painful inquiry, or of preserving reticence until further light 
 should appear. 
 
 There is one kind of evidence which is being continually demanded 
 of a medical man in respect to the administration of the law, which, 
 although it is not given in a court of law, may at any time be the 
 means of taking him into it, and even of causing him to appear as a 
 defendant or culprit rather than as a witness. I refer to certificates of 
 insanity. On this subject, I confess that I marvel at the long suffering 
 I should almost say the stolid supineness, the pachydermatous 
 
 * In the course of the debate which followed the reading of this little paper, Dr. 
 Markham made some excellent observations on the absurdity of consulting experts 
 after the conviction of criminals.
 
 CEE1TFICATES OF INSANITY. 379 
 
 patience of the profession. By these certificates we confer inestimable 
 boons first, on the family of the patient, by separating a member 
 whose presence is distressing and often absolutely dangerous to that 
 family ; on the patient himself, by removing him to a place where he 
 may have the best chance of cure, or be best cared for ; and on the 
 public, to whom the liberty of the patient might bring peril of life and 
 prosperity. And for these services medical practitioners are liable to 
 be held up to public scorn and obloquy as conspirators with mad 
 doctors, as they are called by a vulgar and insulting metonymy, and 
 even to be sued in courts of law for damages. How long the patience 
 of the profession will allow itself to be thus abused I know not ; but 
 it seems to me that, whether or not any other changes be effected in 
 the collection of medico-legal evidence, the profession should, if it 
 have any self-respect, move for a change in the law as to these 
 certificates. If they are still to be signed by ordinary practitioners, it 
 might not unreasonably be stipulated that indemnity should go with 
 the signatures. In signing such a certificate, according to the best 
 of his knowledge and belief and conscience, a certificate involving, 
 though it does, the personal liberty of a fellow-subject, the practi- 
 tioner ought not to incur more risk than when he signs a prescription, 
 on the issues of which attend not only the well-being and the life of 
 the patient, but the maintenance of a family, its happiness, and that 
 of circles of indefinite extent. The public have a sufficient security 
 that such certificates will be carefully considered, in the disgrace that 
 is the inevitable portion of those who have signed them in bad faith, 
 or even without proper caution. Unless the law is altered, I think 
 that the members of our profession would be justified in binding 
 themselves by an engagement to one another, to refuse to sign all such 
 certificates. The legislature could not compel us to sign them. Let 
 it provide officers for that onerous and dangerous duty. But although 
 by our passive resistance we could prevail, I trust that no such unseemly 
 contention may be forced upon us. 
 
 Should the good time arrive when there will be such medical state 
 officers distributed over the country performing functions such as we 
 have seen occasionally performed to the great furtherance of justice by 
 a Christison, a Taylor, a Herapath, whether father or son, a Geoghegan, 
 a Maclagan, or a Penny, it would not be difficult to arrange that their 
 duties should also extend to the surpervision of public health ; for they
 
 380 ON MEDICAL EVIDENCE. 
 
 should not only be assistants in courts of law, but also counsellors at 
 Boards of Health, where their presence is frightfully needed.* 
 
 It is a melancholy thought that in this great nation, so advanced in. 
 its civilisation, so zealous, and in many respects so enlightened in its 
 philanthropy, justice and life should be left to the protection of such 
 rude primitive processes as those of coroners' inquests, where there is 
 not always the saving genius and science of a Lankester, and to the 
 chance of competent witnesses ; and that the lives and comfort and 
 well-being of millions should be left to the ignorant minds and obsti- 
 nate wills and parsimonious propensities of Boards of Health ; and 
 that, in all departments where medicine and law should be brought to 
 work together for public and individual good by the conference of 
 highest wisdom and largest and exactest knowlege, interests so 
 momentous should be left to chances so perilous. A coroner may 
 be capable of requiring and even directing a scientific investigation j 
 the witness may have competent knowledge and sufficient presence of 
 mind to give satisfactory oral evidence (though a carefully drawn up 
 report by a commission would be far preferable) ; a certifier may have 
 psychological discrimination and experience ; and Boards of Health, 
 and Eegistrars of Births and Deaths may have some tincture of sanitary 
 information ; these are chances ; but ought justice and life and liberty 
 and public health and well-being to be left to such chances ? 
 
 I venture to think that something more productive of security 
 should at least be attempted ; and, at all events, that the subject is 
 worthy of the attention of the British Medical Association. 
 
 And so thinking I beg leave to propose that a committee be 
 appointed, to take into consideration the present position of practi- 
 tioners in regard to medico-legal investigations, and especially to confer 
 upon the expediency of pressing upon the legislature the appointment 
 of state physicians, whose duties might embrace both medico-legal 
 investigations and the care of public health. 
 
 In submitting this resolution I am not at all unaware of the, 
 opposition which such a proposal is likely to incur from the public. 
 It will be said at once that the plan suggested would involve a great 
 
 * Any one who wishes to satisfy himself of the manifold benefits likely to accrue-, 
 to the public in regard to sanitary matters from the appointment of state physicians, 
 should study the very able and instructive essays on State Medicine which we owe 
 to Mr. Kumsey.
 
 STATE-PHYSICIANS WANTED. 381 
 
 outlay of public money an outlay not to be thought of when medical 
 evidence can be extorted as at present from our too yielding profession. 
 Nothing can be expected unless the public advantage can be shown to 
 be seriously involved. There is nothing to be expected from a con- 
 sideration of what is due to us as a profession ; and if we move at all 
 in the matter it should be with all the force of united action. The 
 rgreat professional corporations of the United Kingdom, the College of 
 Physicians, the College of Surgeons, the Company of Apothecaries, 
 the Council of Medical Education, all should be invited to co-operate. 
 "When every method of conciliatory representation to the legislature 
 has been exhatisted without avail, it may then be for the profession to 
 consider its resources in the way of passive resistance to demands as 
 inequitable to its members, as they are inexpedient for the public good.
 
 ADDKESS ON HEALTH. 
 
 DELIVERED AT THE CONGRESS OF THE SOCIAL SCIENCE 
 ASSOCIATION, IN BRISTOL, OCTOBER 4, 1869. 
 
 [E duty of this Department of the Social Science Association is, 
 as its name implies, that of considering such questions as regard 
 the promotion of Public Health that is the health of large 
 bodies of human beings. At first sight it might seem that if 
 individuals and families take due care to preserve their health, the 
 general health must be the natural result of it ; or rather its sum total. 
 And if all that is required for the purpose in view were an intelligent 
 and assiduous observance of such rules of life as produce well-being, 
 then the most promising line of operation for such associations as this, 
 would be that of promoting the education of as many people aa 
 possible in matters belonging to individual health. They would have 
 to be taught how to avoid disease and how to maintain the faculties of 
 their frames in highest efficiency. This would be done partly by 
 inducing them to study physiology, at least so much of it as bears 
 directly on hygiene ;* and partly by instructing them in those practical 
 processes which science, or experience, or both of these may have 
 established as salutary. But this would not be enough. No man can 
 take care of himself irrespectively of the community in which he lives. 
 And perhaps it is as well for the fortunes of mankind that individual 
 and general welfare should be thus mutually dependent. It is true 
 that the accumulation of many individual instances of disobedience to 
 the laws of health must work banefully on the health of the community; 
 
 Mr. Huxley's popular lectures on Physiology and Dr. Lankester's School Manual 
 of Health are particularly recommended.
 
 HEALTH A COMMON INTEREST. 383 
 
 but all the efforts of individuals in conserving their own proper health 
 would be incapable of neutralizing some of the causes of disease 
 diffused around them, unless aided by the co-operation of the public. 
 In vain would a man be temperate and judicious in his diet, regular in 
 his exercise, punctilious in his ablutions, and ingenious as to his house 
 arrangements, whether for temperature, or ventilation, or cleanliness, 
 if the public sources of many of his requirements are deficient or 
 corrupt ; if, for example, the water supplied him is impure ; if the air 
 which he is so careful to let in abundantly is loaded with miasms ; and 
 if the well-ordered outlets of his dwelling are in relation with inade- 
 quate or obstructed public conduits and reservoirs. 
 
 Man, impelled by his instinct, constrained by his needs, incited by 
 his emulation and his ambition, and attracted by his natural ties and 
 affections, is necessarily gregarious ; and he must pursue his good, and 
 defend himself from evil by inducing or compelling his associates, 
 through law, or instruction, or example, to be as wise and prudent as 
 himself. Men must help one another to make the best of their con- 
 ditions of existence, and to keep themselves in harmony, if possible, 
 with that part of God's universe that environs and maintains them ; 
 or if not in harmony, then in successful conflict with those hostile 
 agencies, which it has pleased the supreme wisdom that man should 
 exert his faculties in quelling, or abating, or abolishing utterly. But 
 alas ! how slow have men been to see their good and to ensue it. Over 
 what long and doleful ages have they left themselves and their brethren 
 to pine in long maladies, to shiver and burn with fevers, to be stunted 
 in growth, and to become the victims of loathsome diseases, because of 
 marshes undrained, of houses and cities ill-planned, and of cleanliness 
 ignored or neglected. Have we reason for complaining that our pre- 
 decessors, when they had as it were the whole world before them, 
 should have settled themselves in malarious localities, and that, when 
 they could have drawn to any amount from the liberal air, they should 
 have so built their houses and streets, as if air were the rarest and 
 most difficult of possessions ? No ; in judging of their selection we 
 must remember that their primal needs, which became traditional, 
 were to obtain shelter from elemental storms and inclemencies, from 
 wild beasts, and from fierce neighbours, in intrenchments and fortifi- 
 cations, and at the same time to be within reach of the natural food 
 supplied by the sea, by rivers, by forests, by prairies, and by hunting 
 grounds. When, through the clear waters of the Lake of Neufchatel
 
 384 'ADDRESS ON HEALTH. 
 
 or of Zurich, we dimly descry the piles of the old Lacustrines, and we 
 wonder that they should have chosen sites for their dwellings seemingly 
 so humid, we have only to call to mind that their sleep was liable to 
 other invasions than that of rheumatic pains, and that the vexatious 
 visits of the smaller tribes of the animal creation could be better 
 borne than encounters with bears and wolves, or surprises from pre- 
 datory foes. 
 
 But however this may be, it is obvious that in the civilized world 
 of nationalities and crowded cities, congregations of men have not to 
 seek choice localities, but to do the best they can towards repairing the 
 effects of the original bad selection, and mitigating the accumulated 
 evils gathered from ages of ignorance and neglect, and from the hard 
 necessities of national struggles. And it is in the attempt to do this 
 that so much energy, and benevolence, and ingenuity have been 
 exerted, in what we call sanitary improvements and sanitary legislation, 
 during the last thirty years. Before this time, however, there was the 
 recognition of such a branch of medical science as had for its object 
 the suggestion or direction of improvements in the public health by 
 means of legislative enactments. Indeed, few civilized nations have 
 been without some laws and customs having for their objects the 
 maintenance of health among the people, the. suppression of ordinary 
 diseases, and the averting of pestilences by a sort of police. Among 
 the oriental races there were laws and precepts prescribing and regu- 
 lating ablutions and baths, the use or avoidance of particular meats, 
 fasts, separation of lepers, definition of the limits of consanguinity 
 not to be transgressed in marriage, and so on. The Egyptians seem to 
 have directed most of their legislative wisdom, as far as health was 
 concerned, to the regulation of the practice of their doctors. Sir 
 Gardiner Wilkinson says " they received certain salaries from the 
 public treasury, and after they had studied those precepts which had 
 been laid down from the experience of their predecessors, they were 
 permitted to practise ; and in order to ensure their attention to the 
 prescribed rules, and to prevent dangerous experiments being made 
 upon patients, they were punished if their treatment was contrary to 
 the established system ; and the death of a person entrusted to their 
 care, under such circumstances, was adjudged to them as a capital 
 offence. If, however, every remedy had been administered according 
 to the sanitary law they were absolved from blame, and " these pro- 
 visions," says Diodorus, " were made with the persuasion that few
 
 GROWTH OF GREAT CITIES. 385 
 
 persons could be capable of introducing any new treatment superior to 
 what had been sanctioned and approved by the skill of old practitioners." 
 The Greeks threw the chief stress of their hygienic endeavours on the 
 education of the bodily frame to the highest degree of vigour and 
 beauty, particularly by the use of gymnastic exercises. How the 
 Romans provided in some important respects for public health may be 
 seen in the picturesque remains of their aqueducts, in their luxurious 
 public baths (in Diocletian's Thermae there was accommodation for 
 3,200 persons), and in spacious sewers which date from Etruscan kings. 
 But after all there is little in such arrangements and directions but 
 what might be viewed, more or less, in relation to the most simple 
 demands of the human constitution. It is to this very century, to our 
 own times, nay, I might almost say, to one single generation, that we 
 have to revert for observing any serious practice of public hygiene. 
 I am not about to attempt any history of this movement, but I think I 
 may venture to say its great advances were co-eval with the introduc- 
 tion of the new Poor Law, and with the Act for Eegistering Births 
 and Deaths and the Causes of Death, and with the Municipal Eeform 
 Act, and subsequently with the Act for Amending the Health of Towns. 
 What has been done since that time would require long research and 
 labour even to epitomize it. I will only glance at a very few heads. 
 
 The sanitarian professors and practitioners by their zeal, their 
 energy, and enlightened labours compelled our legislature and govern- 
 ments to acknowledge and act upon the fact that oxygen is a substance 
 at least as important as gunpowder; that without the full and free 
 ingress of that life-giving and death-destroying agent into the dwell- 
 ings of the poor, and that without clearing from thoroughfares and 
 public places accumulated refuse and offscourings, the less favoured 
 classes of the community must sink into lower and lower physical 
 deterioration and deeper and deeper degradation of moral life. 
 
 The growth of great cities, the mortality involved in that growth, 
 and the multiplication of feeble, degenerate representatives of the 
 human race, in the alleys and lanes and wynds of those crowded 
 hives, where, though life swarms, disease and death are fermenting 
 and corrupting in increasing ratios, have been well set forth in a paper , 
 by Dr. Bridges, on the " Influence of Civilization on Health," in the 
 Fortnightly Review for August, as well as previously by Dr. Morgan in 
 his excellent " Essay on the Deterioration of Eace by the Increase of 
 Large Cities." It seems that whereas in the year 1811 there were 
 
 2 c
 
 386 ADDRESS ON HEALTH. 
 
 51 towns containing above 10,000 inhabitants, and these towns con- 
 tained 24 per cent, of the population; in the year 1861 there were 
 165 of such towns, containing 44 per cent. In the year 1811 there 
 were sixteen towns containing over 20,000 inhabitants, that is 19 per 
 cent, of the population ; but in 1861 there were 72 such towns contain- 
 ing 38 per cent, of the population. In 1811 no town, except London, 
 contained above 100,000, but in 1861, twelve towns had this over- 
 flowing population, and they comprised one-fourth of the whole people. 
 The population of large towns is recruited by constant immigration, 
 the calculation being that of the joint populations of London, Liver- 
 pool, Manchester, and Birmingham, half of the adult population is 
 immigrant ; that is, its nativity was outside of the town, and for the 
 most part in some healthy rural district. Some years ago I compared 
 the mortality of large towns with that of rural districts, and of places 
 with mixed populations, and I found that the average annual rate of 
 the first was 24 in 1,000, in the second 15, in the mixed 21. The 
 crowding of towns implies the accumulation of animal products and 
 exuviae, and the inability of the population to escape from the polluted 
 atmosphere. The cottage of the agricultural labourer, and even the 
 farm-yard and the farm-house are often woefully deficient in sanitary 
 arrangements, but the inhabitants for the greater part of their time 
 are breathing the fresh air of the fields. 
 
 To urge the admission of air, a sufficient supply of water, to avert 
 the pollution of water, to improve drainage, to lighten and purify the 
 dwellings of the poor and surrounding spaces ; to induce the public to 
 learn something of the laws of health, and having learnt them to 
 follow their practical corollaries ; to press on the consideration of the 
 public mind the value of health, not only for individual andrramily 
 welfare and comfort but also with a view to public economy, and that 
 reflection of benefit which comes to the upper members of society from 
 the amended health of the less-favoured classes ; for such objects and 
 many others the initiators of sanitary reform laboured, in spite of the 
 opposition of local boards, and of municipal and parochial authorities, 
 jealous of any hint that their administration could fall short of per- 
 . fection ; they laboured also undiscouraged by general apathy, and the 
 passive obstruction presented by mere ignorance. To pour knowledge 
 on a gross population, besotted and prejudiced, is like letting sunshine 
 into streets that have been darkened and fouled for ages. The dingy ? 
 begrimed surfaces reflect no luminous motion, and through the dusty
 
 WARNING EFFECT OF EPIDEMICS. 387 
 
 apertures and all but opaque windows there can be but imperfect 
 transmission of the light admitted, and so the scene looks after all 
 none the better for the sunshine. But, though the objects of efforts 
 made to enlighten them seem so little capable of appreciating the 
 benefits which await them, the reformers are enabled to discern the 
 dark places on which they have to operate, and to realise what Lord 
 Bacon was never tired of reiterating, that works must be luciferous 
 before they can be fructiferous, and, as such, imitative of the order of 
 creation, the beginning of which was Fiat Lux. But all the zealous 
 endeavours of the early sanitarians would have been longer in over- 
 coming the public indifference had it not been for the epidemics which 
 befell us. The influenzas of 1831 and 1837, and the awful cholera 
 visitations of 1832 and 1849, struck a terror into the people that shook 
 them out of their torpor, and made them consider their ways and their 
 sanitary sins and shortcomings, and disposed their hearts to listen to 
 the sermons and admonitions of the apostles and preachers of hygienic 
 righteousness. 
 
 It had been all but useless to explain that ordinary health would 
 be increased, and intellectual energies stronger, and moral emotions 
 and sentiments sounder, and enjoyment more vivid, and all life more 
 bright and vigorous ; but it was something to be able to tell them that 
 the destroyers of their dear ones might be warned away, or that if they 
 came the pestilence would be paralyzed, and the fever starved for want 
 of the foul gases and waters by which they were fed and fostered. 
 To this Association, which happily still numbers in its ranks so many 
 of the early labourers in the sanitary movement, it would seem almost 
 impertinent were I to attempt to rehearse their names ; but the future 
 historian will dwell on those of Southwood, Smith, Chadwick, 
 Kay- Shuttle worth, Shaftesbury, Farr, Rumsey, Simon, Nightingale, 
 Lankester, Kingsley,* Parkes, Eichardson, and Stewart, not only as 
 effecters of the immediate good of mankind in their own day, but also 
 as the inaugurators of happiness to unborn millions. I advise those 
 who wish to inquire into the history of these efforts to study Dr. 
 Bumsey's " Essays on State Medicine," which they will find full of 
 information, sober reasoning, and practical suggestions of the highest 
 value; and also an admirable pamphlet by Dr. Stewart and Mr. 
 Jenkins on the medical and legal aspects of sanitary reform. To these 
 
 We claim the author of Alton Locke and Yeast as a powerful sanitary 
 reformer.
 
 388 ADDRESS OX HEALTH. 
 
 I must add those singularly able letters with which Dr. Farr has for 
 many years enriched the annual reports of the Registrar-General, and 
 which I should like to see collected into a separate volume ; also the- 
 Annual Reports of the Medical Officer of the Privy Council. 
 
 Dr. Rumsey with a masterly hand chalked out lines and parallels 
 for the future extension of sanitary legislation, while Dr. Stewart 
 presented strong statistics and vivid pictures of the good that must 
 accrue to mankind when even the present very imperfect machinery of 
 hygienic improvement has had fair play. But all of these writers 
 afford abundant proof that if we wish to bring out the life and 
 strength of this great people, and to 
 
 " Cleanse its foul bosom of that perilous stuff 
 That weighs about its heart," 
 
 we must have more efficient machinery and a greater number of 
 workers. They must be men accomplished in the sciences that belong 
 to this Department, and also men who have had thoroughly practical 
 training. Their occupation must be the care of the public health, and 
 of that only. They must be above the control, and independent of the 
 appointment, of local boards, for there must be neither favour nor fear 
 in their relations with local authorities and with local possessors of pro- 
 perty. If they are thought to strain their power, and to encroach too 
 much on public finances, that is, on local rates and taxes, let them, be 
 amenable to censure and restraint from the hands of the national 
 administration. It is extremely difficult for locally appointed inspec- 
 tors and local boards to do their duty when they have to deal with the 
 dwellings of the poor. They come into conflict with individual 
 interests, often with the interest of persons powerfully influential in 
 the locality. But there are a vast number of subjects that would fall 
 under the care and control of such state officers, who would have no 
 other duties to perform than those which belong to their special office. 
 There would be no struggle between the claims of public work, ill 
 paid, and those of private engagements which are the main dependence 
 of the officer for subsistence. The interests of the public would not 
 be subject to the fortunate accident of alighting or not on an able and 
 assiduous agent like Mr. Davis of this city, who has zeal and activity 
 enough to combine successfully both public and private duties. The 
 work of such an officer as we have indicated would comprehend not 
 merely the inspection of the dwellings and lodging-houses of the 
 labouring classes, and streets and thoroughfares ; but rivers and water-
 
 KATIONAL AMUSEMENTS. 389 
 
 courses, also workshops, factories, and mines -would come under his 
 survey. Again, he -would have to -watch the public market-places, the 
 stall of the seller of fruit and vegetables, the shambles of the butcher, 
 the shops of the vendors of possibly adulterated food and adulterated 
 drugs, in fact, all places where refuse may accumulate and noxious 
 products arise, and whence deleterious substances may be disseminated. 
 The registration of births and deaths might or might not fall to his lot, 
 or to that of some other medico-legal functionary ; but certainly it 
 would be his duty to watch the progress of sickness in the population, 
 not merely as measured by death rates. His work, like that of this 
 Association, would be to prevent or reduce the deadly records of the 
 public registrar, and with a view not only to save life but also to make 
 life happier and more useful. 
 
 The great misery of the world is not dying, but dragging on a 
 maimed, mutilated existence, in which labour is suffering, and pleasure 
 is a burden and disappointment, a state without spring, and without 
 light or colour, or at best a dull monotonous chiaroscuro, which, if not 
 distressing, is utterly joyless. Yet to vast multitudes life is nothing 
 better, because, in the districts inhabited, the fountains of life are 
 inadequate, or are adulterated and poisoned. We cannot very much 
 wonder that the artizan, dulled and half-stupified by the close air and 
 ill odours of the workshop and the lodging, or by the fumes of the 
 factory, should reel into the cheerful beer-house or the glittering gin- 
 shop, craving for some temporary relief to his weariness and depression. 
 I need scarcely remark en passant that one of the most crying wants of 
 the community, with regard to public health, is provision for unobjec- 
 tionable amusement. In supplying their needs it is not enough to 
 give them oxygen in plenty, and pure water and wholesome food : 
 they have to be entertained as well as fed. Recreation and play are 
 as necessary to mankind as are food and raiment. And if there are 
 not sources of rational and innocuous amusement, then there will 
 inevitably be riot and debauchery. An enlightened and refined 
 community will some day provide for these things. It will not, as of 
 old, be left to self-seeking, ambitious consuls and emperors to corrupt 
 the people with " panem et circenses;" but governments will keep a 
 paternal eye over the sports and amusements, as well as over the health 
 and the toil of the great mass of the community. Here, however, we 
 are encroaching on other Departments. But indeed it cannot be 
 'Otherwise than that the Departments should occasionally overlap each
 
 390 ADDRESS ON HEALTH. 
 
 other. The mind and the body, the body and the mind ; the laws that 
 bind, and the laws that loose ; the knowledge that strengthens and 
 enlivens ; and the economy that provides and husbands the resources 
 of life and strength ; all of these in their several requirements and 
 operations are perpetually crossing and interpenetrating each other as 
 the unavoidable result of the compositeness of man's constitution, and 
 of its correlative wants. 
 
 But to return to our immediate subject, I must trouble you with a 
 few more words on State medicine. There are probably many members 
 of this assembly who have not followed the course of the movement. 
 Four years ago a committee was formed by the British Medical 
 Association for the special object of taking means to urge upon the 
 Legislature the importance of providing for the more effectual 
 administration of the laws affecting public health, and for the amend- 
 ment of medico-legal action. The subject was also taken up by this 
 Association. In the early part of last year the movement had 
 advanced so far that a joint committee, which had been formed, by a 
 happy suggestion of Mr. Hastings, from this Association and from the 
 British Medical Association, recommended a deputation to the Govern- 
 ment in order to petition them to appoint a Royal Commission to 
 inquire into the operation of the laws belonging to State medicine. 
 The deputation was made, and one of the points most strenuously 
 urged on the Government, was the necessity of appointing a new order 
 of functionaries in the State, who should be distributed over the country 
 with the special duty of advising, directing, and, if necessary, of 
 enforcing the administration of the laws affecting public healtfe The 
 heads of recommendation were : 
 
 " 1. The manner in which the cases and causes of sickness and of death are, 
 and should be inquired into, and recorded in the United Kingdom. 
 
 " 2. The manner in whioh the coroners' inquests, and other medico -legal inquiries 
 are, and ought to he conducted, particularly in the methods of taking scientific 
 evidence. 
 
 " 3. The operation and administration of sanitary laws with special reference to 
 the manner in which scientific and medical advice and aid in the prevention of 
 disease are, and should he afforded ; and also with special reference to the extent of 
 the areas or districts most convenient for sanitary and medico-legal purposes. 
 
 " 4. The sanitary organization existing and required, including a complete 
 account of the several authorities and officers. The education, selection, qualification, 
 duties, powers, tenures, and remuneration of the said officers to be specially 
 reported on. 
 
 " 5. The revision and consolidation of the sanitary laws, having special reference 
 to the increase of the efficiency of their administration both central and local."
 
 EOYAL COMMISSION OF INQUIRY. 391 
 
 For this work we are indebted especially to the exertions of Dr. 
 Eumsey, Dr. Acland, Dr. William Farr, Dr. Stewart, Mr. Clode, and 
 Mr. Michael. The Eoyal Commission has been granted, but it is to 
 be regretted that the Government has thought proper to limit its 
 operation to the provinces of England, for even if Scotland and Ireland 
 were not to be included, it was undesirable that the metropolitan 
 districts should have been omitted. I do not suppose that London is 
 held to be too pure to be inquired into, or that, although some of its 
 sanitary provisions are all that could be wished for, especially those 
 which are under the supervision and control of such officers as Mr. 
 Simon, Dr. Letheby, Mr. Holland, and Dr. Ballard, there is no room 
 for the operation of that new order of functionaries, the creation of 
 which we are so anxious to urge on the Legislature, and which we 
 trust will be the result of the inquiries of the Eoyal Commission.* 
 
 The last action of the joint committee in their untiring performance of the 
 duties which they had undertaken was this memorial : 
 
 " To Her Majesty's Principal Secretary of State for the Home Department, and to 
 
 the Right Honourable the Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 " The Memorial of the Joint Committee of the British Medical and Social Science 
 
 Associations, 
 " HUMBLY SHEWETH, 
 
 " That the primary and chief ohject of those who last year earnestly urged upon 
 Her Majesty's Government the appointment of a Royal Commission of Inquiry into 
 the operation and administration of the Laws relating to Registration, Medico- 
 Legal Investigations, and the Improvement of the Public Health, was to obtain, on 
 unimpeachable authority, the fullest and most trustworthy information as to how far 
 the Laws in question are fitted to secure the ends for which they were enacted, and 
 how far they are obeyed throughout the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ire- 
 land. That they hoped and believed that such an Inquiry, properly carried out, 
 would furnish a body of evidence that would be accepted on all hands as a safe guide 
 in all future discussions on the consolidation and amendment of the said Laws, and 
 might be appealed to as conclusive, both in and out of Parliament. 
 
 " That they asked for an Inquiry co-extensive with the Kingdom, because, while 
 the spirit and general tenor of the said Laws are everywhere the same, the details 
 are very varied, and marked by diversities, sometimes well and often ill suited to the 
 circumstances under which they are administered. That, therefore, any legislation 
 founded on imperfect information as to these special circumstances and the special 
 means required to meet them, must of necessity fail to fultil the intention of a 
 Sanitary Commission, and to secure those benefits which would be likely to result 
 from fuller and more extended Inquiry. 
 
 " That no information obtained merely by written answers to schedules of ques- 
 tions, always open to grave misconception of their scope and import, and addressed 
 exclusively to local authorities, can, in the absence of personal inquiry, either by the 
 Commission itself or by skilled persons deputed to discharge their functions, furnish 
 a trustworthy basis for permanent legislation. That as, sooner or later, recourse 
 must be had in many places to inquiry on the spot, in order to supplement the 
 tabular returns, as well as to test their accuracy, economy as well as efficiency 
 demands that this course be adopted now. 
 
 " That the urgent necessity for a full consideration of the present method of
 
 392 ADDRESS ON HEALTH. 
 
 But while Government and the Legislature are awakening to the 
 duties which lie before them, it is to be hoped that they will be sup- 
 ported, and indeed urged on, by public opinion; and one of the 
 instruments for increasing the public interest in these vital matters is 
 the Social Science Association. It cannot be said that the public does 
 not altogether need to be instructed or roused to a sense of its wants 
 and its dangers, when we read in some of the journals that it is highly 
 doubtful whether vaccination should be compulsory, and that vaccina- 
 tion is little better than a fancy or theory of the medical profession. 
 But the history of small-pox in different countries, since vaccination 
 was discovered and practised, would bring any impartial inquirer to 
 the belief that, if this safeguard were neglected, the community would 
 in another generation or two go back to that state which used to cause 
 the writers of public advertisements, and private correspondents, to 
 describe individuals as distinguishable by their complexions, in regard 
 to the marks left by the ravages of small-pox. It would seem that a 
 semi-panic has been excited by a report that cases have occurred in 
 which there was reason for suspecting that the virus of disgusting and 
 deteriorating disease had been diffused by vaccination. Even were it 
 admitted that a constitutional fault, inherited from vicious parentage, 
 can be communicated through the vaccine lymph, still all that we have 
 to be anxious about is the selection of proper sources of the lymph. 
 We do not leave off eating bread because bread is sometimes adultera- 
 ting. 
 
 And as to the infraction of the liberty of the subject by compulsory 
 vaccination, it must be borne in mind that our object in forcing vacci- 
 nation on parents is not so much that their offspring should be 
 preserved from small-pox, as that their children may not become the 
 contaminators of their neighbours, and perhaps of the whole com- 
 munity. Those who can remember, as I can, the time when the 
 
 conducting medical investigations in relation to forensic tribunals has been, much to 
 the regret of your Memorialists, entirely lost sight of, and excluded from the Inquiry 
 of the Commission. 
 
 " Your Memorialists, therefore, would most respectfully urge on Her Majesty's 
 Government a further prosecution of these inquiries, and their extension to the 
 metropolis, to Scotland, and to Ireland. This, although entailing some additional 
 outlay, would amply repay, in value to the country, any contemplated expenditure of 
 national funds ; and would insure that confidence in the investigations of the Royal 
 Commission which the present limitation of the Inquiry fails to command. 
 
 " Signed in name and by appointment of the Committee, 
 
 " W. H. MICHAEL. 
 
 " London, August, 1869." " A. P. STEWART.
 
 PEAK OF VACCINATION. 393 
 
 nation was just realising the benefit of Tenner's transcendent discovery 
 in the new sense of security to life, and, I may add without any 
 hyperbole, in the renaissance of the beauty of men and women ; those 
 who can remember that time, and the infinite labour expended in 
 reasoning and preaching, and pleading, and persuading a doltish and 
 prejudiced people to profit by the beneficent light which, through a 
 genius all but divine, had been flashed upon them ; those who can 
 remember the hard emergence of human life and human beauty from 
 that period of desolation and disfigurement, are shocked by the per- 
 nicious levity with which doubts are now thrown upon the value of 
 vaccination, the most precious boon that any one man ever conferred 
 on his fellows. 
 
 I may state that since I put down these words, I have read a 
 report of a quite recent discussion, in the French Academy of Medicine, 
 of this fear of contamination from cow-pox ; and I am glad to say 
 that the result was enormously preponderant against the alarmists. 
 And so I trust that compulsory vaccination will not give an inch to 
 this foolish and petulant opposition. 
 
 In the course of these remarks I have talked of health, both indi- 
 vidual and public, as if it were well known what health means. 
 Perhaps the common popular notion of it is enough for practical 
 purposes. It is the antithesis of disease and disability, the capability 
 of doing the duties of the day without detriment to the organs 
 employed in the work, or to other parts of the body. It is not health 
 for example, if the brain of the literary man after the production of a 
 successful paper is left aching, and if his night's rest is broken, and his 
 digestion becomes toilsome, and his muscles are unable or unwilling 
 to act. Perfect health ideal health implies the completeness of the 
 whole and of every part of the human organism, the eduction of all 
 its latent capacities in their due proportion to each other, and such a 
 condition of all the parts that they may do what is fairly required of 
 them without strain, and without subtraction from the energies of each 
 other. To attain this is the aim of hygienic art ; to develop man to 
 the utmost of his physical nature, and yet to maintain the several 
 parts of his system in due balance and harmony. A grand object, but 
 alas ! far from attainment. To many it seems that there is nothing 
 needed but to let nature take her course to follow nature, to obey 
 natural laws, and then that all will come right. But this is a some-
 
 394 ADDRESS OX HEALTH. 
 
 what shortsighted view. It is too true that man has often blundered 
 and bungled in his attempts to modify and subdue the forces of nature 
 so as to realise his conceptions and to satisfy his wishes, and that after 
 his clumsy contrivances and manipulations he has had to throw up his 
 schemes and endeavours, and to admit that nature's processes are 
 better left to themselves. But if the human race had continued to be 
 deterred by such discouragements, there would have been no art, no 
 progress. Man cannot resist his destiny, which is involved in his 
 faculty to mould and subdue nature to something better than he finds 
 around him. One of his great difficulties is that he has to work in a 
 limited time, and with the most rigid economy in the use of what he 
 works with, and of the matter on which he works. But nature has 
 unbounded resources ; to her time is no object ; and she has unlimited 
 means of waste as well as of use, and the aehievment of her perfection 
 after all may be left to the struggle of the strongest, and the chance 
 meeting of the fittest structure with the fittest environment ; in the 
 course of which trials and contentions, and selections and adjustments, 
 there may have been centuries on centuries of incompleteness and 
 waste. Sickly, stunted plants, crowded trees destroying one another, 
 flowers with imperfect petals and shrivelled leaves, are some of the 
 commonest indications of natural want of development, of overcrowd- 
 ing, of imperfect supply of heat and moisture in a word, of what in 
 human arrangements would be disease and would imply neglect. 
 
 These facts of course belong to an order of events which are 
 beyond the limited cognisance of man, a system by which decay, and 
 waste, and death are but phases of transmutation, and media through 
 which better things are to be evolved. Were man merely to follow 
 nature, he would, on looking at the present state of his fellows and of 
 society, be inclined to say : These agricultural peasants seem but very 
 poorly developed, with narrow perceptions and the scantiest knowledge, 
 and even their locomotive frames, though trained to some kinds of 
 rough toil, are yet wanting in suppleness, and elasticity, and grace ; 
 these pallid, crippled artizans in these overgrown towns, these poisoned 
 infants, these distorted, half human arabs of the streets, these unhappy 
 fallen women, these demons of debauchery, these rotten haunts of 
 crime and infamy, they must be left : these evils must cure themselves 
 by plagues, and deaths, and desolations, and better and wiser races 
 will in far-off times emerge. But man, if he thinks at all on such
 
 NATURE AND AKT. 395 
 
 things, cannot by the very necessity, of his nature, his instincts, his 
 yearnings, his sympathies, his conscious power, he cannot let the evils 
 which he sees pursue their course ; he cries 
 
 " Must helpless man in ignorance sedate 
 Roll darkling down the torrent of his fate?" 
 
 and forthwith he begins his attempts at civilization and improvements. 
 In regard to health, there are agents all around that feed, and 
 support, and purify, but they need to be arranged and used according 
 to knowledge and reason ; and here is the difficulty. The perceptive 
 and reasoning faculties of man are as much a part of nature as what- 
 ever he surveys and operates upon. But this part of nature may be 
 for long ages in abeyance, latent, and unevolved ; or it may be employed 
 on very different agents, as, for instance, in the transactions of war, 
 and in works which give pleasure to the eye, and which belong to the 
 fine arts. Hygienic art cannot be practised without study of nature, 
 nor without altering nature and compelling her to subserve and minister 
 to the health of individuals and of communities. It is but doing in its 
 own sphere what all civilization does in violating and breaking up the 
 works of nature. If we consider for a moment a scene of tropical 
 vegetation ; magnificent forests, luxuriant underwood, beautiful plants, 
 birds of gorgeous plumage, and sweet voices ; we are disposed to 
 exclaim, " how glorious and how admirable are these works ! " though 
 we know that these plants and trees often strangle and stifle each other, 
 grow imperfectly, and die prematurely ; and that within the thickets 
 lurk murderous carnivora, and treacherous reptiles, and hideous 
 mollusca, and venomous insects, and slimy annelida, loathsome and 
 repugnant to all but enthusiastic zoologists ; and that were there not 
 these animal foes of man, there are malarious poisons lying in wait for 
 him, if he is so ignorant or unwary as to attempt to take a night's 
 repose in those solemn and enchanting shades. In the course of time 
 man learns that there are many things that he must alter and destroy. 
 He must let in light and air, and kill or starve the beasts and reptiles, 
 and sweep away the woods, and drain the jungles. And in his civilizing 
 works he does this and much more. But in all his observations, and 
 thinkings, and labourings, it is only the nature within him contending 
 with and subduing the nature which is around him. So that after all 
 there is no antagonism of nature and art, but the triumph of one 
 department of nature over another, the yielding of the lower nature 
 in gross physical forces, and inferior living organisms, to the higher
 
 396 ADDRESS ON HEALTH. 
 
 nature which, is in the will and reason of the supremest of God's 
 creations. 
 
 On glancing over the recent literature of public health, monographs, 
 reports of the Registrar-General, reports of health officers, addresses 
 from this chair, papers in journals, &c., unless you follow up one par- 
 ticular inquiry a benumbing sensation conies over you of confusion 
 and bewilderment. It is as if one suddenly entered upon a vast district 
 of primeval country, where an army of pioneers and engineers, miners 
 and quarrymen, had been recently set to work to level arid clear and 
 irrigate, with a clamour of tongues some querulous at the impracti- 
 cability of the soil, some denouncing the methods employed, some 
 crying for additional help. But in whatever direction we look we may 
 discern evidences of earnest labour and successful effort. In fact, the 
 great work of our age is just beginning. "We are " in the morning of 
 the times," nay, in the earliest, faintest dawn, and some confusion and 
 distraction are inevitable. We have so many unsettled questions. We 
 hardly know, taking, for example, even a practical matter, anything 
 so seemingly rudimentary, as whether we should pour the refuse of 
 our towns into rivers, or detain it both for the service of the land and 
 for the preservation of water from pollution. And, as an instance of 
 scientific difficulty and uncertainty we are by no means clear, and 
 therefore by no means agreed, as to the manner in which great sanitary 
 evils beget diseases, how epidemics and plagues and pestilences origi- 
 nate. We know certain gross facts, we know that diseases are rifest 
 and their deadliness heaviest where human beings are in closest 
 proximity ; we know that a certain consumption of oxygen is effected 
 by one pair of lungs in a certain time, but varying with food, and 
 different kinds of food and exercise (though there is a controversy as 
 to the number of cubic inches of air to be allotted to an individual in 
 a cell or dormitory), and we talk of air poisons, and water poisons, 
 and earth poisons, but we do not really know what they are. What 
 is marsh miasm ? What is the contagious substance, the causa causans, 
 in small pox and scarlatina ? Are they living or dead things ? Are 
 they organic germs, capable of indefinite self-multiplication when once 
 embedded in an appropriate nidus ? or are they new combinations of 
 proximate principles, generated out of the death, decay, and disintegra- 
 tion of organic matter under particular conditions ? The decision is 
 not come to. 
 
 And there are epidemics about which it is not settled whether they
 
 CAUSES OF EPIDEMICS. 397 
 
 are propagated by contagion only, or by other means ; or whether, 
 owing their origin only to earth, air, and water, and organic matter, 
 they are afterwards sown among a population by the first victims. To 
 some it appears as heterodox to believe in a mere chemical, septic 
 origin of typhoid fever or cholera, as to believe in the equivocal or 
 spontaneous generation of the lowest forms of life. The anxious, 
 eager thoughts of inquirers fume and ferment over these questions in 
 a zymosis as energetic as the hypothetical process which one section of 
 the controversialists attribute to the object of their researches. But 
 under the vigilant outlook and investigations of combined chemical and 
 microscopic detectives, the latent offenders will some day be brought 
 to light and their mysterious genesis unmasked. Where there is so 
 much room for guessing, I might not be seriously blamed for surmising 
 that it is not improbable that the so-called poisons, though forms of 
 life, and sprung from a remote ancestry, may, like other organisms, 
 have undergone Darwinian metamorphoses in their long descent ; that 
 varieties have been constituted into species ; that the norafebrium cohors, 
 which suddenly alighting on a population, perplex and affright it with 
 novel forms of havoc and desolation, may be transformed descendants 
 of ancient enemies of man ; that the plague of Athens in one age and 
 country is in another the plague of Egypt, or the black pestilence of 
 the Middle Ages, or the sweating-sickness of the Renaissance, or even 
 the cholera of the second decade of the present century. But whatever 
 the vagueness of our conjectures, the wildness of our speculations, or 
 the strife of our controversies, it is a consoling fact that our scientific 
 sanitarians can, in many cases, destroy the substances in which the 
 invisible agents of evil lie dormant, whether by making their habitats 
 untenantable, or incapable of maintaining their noxious life, or by 
 chemically decomposing them as mere morbific matter. An admirable 
 contribution to the science of disinfectants and to the art of using 
 them has been given to the public in the present year by Dr. Angus 
 Smith ; and I cannot but add that my distinguished friend, Dr. Budd, 
 who has devoted so much ability and so much toil to the elucidation of 
 contagious diseases, has favoured the public with some valuable 
 practical directions on the means of guarding against infection from 
 scarlatina. 
 
 In the work which this Department undertakes there is, as I have 
 said, much confusion and darkness, but we need not doubt that, as in
 
 398 ADDRESS ON HEALTH. 
 
 all honest scientific inquiries, and strenuous endeavours of art, endea- 
 vours founded on knowledge, the great forces of Nature will be brought 
 to act on the side of human wants, and that the seeming hostilities 
 will be limited and subdued by human will. It will not always have 
 to be said that 
 
 " The generations are prepared ; the pangs 
 The internal pangs are ready; the dread strife 
 Of poor humanity's afflicted will, 
 Struggling in vain with ruthless destiny." 
 
 It would be scarcely presumptuous to prophesy that as men become 
 really wiser they must become happier. By wiser I do not mean 
 more merely speculative and contemplative. In the matters under our 
 survey, to be wise is to learn and to make others learn and know the 
 facts of nature ; that is, the facts of our human life and of the things 
 or agents that surround and affect us, our existence and the conditions 
 of our existence, and then to apply our knowledge to the promotion of 
 the greatest happiness of the greatest number of the human race. As 
 it regards health, men as they become better instructed in the com- 
 position, and physics, and chemistry of their bodies, and in the relation 
 of corporeal processes to the powers of nature, will take more heed to 
 all that comes under hygienic culture, and they will learn far more 
 than we in this age can know ; for our inquiries, as I have just 
 remarked, are only on the threshold. The narrow life which is now 
 led by mankind will, perhaps, be exchanged for one in which they will 
 have wider ranges, and a " largior tether." The means of traversing 
 the globe will be multiplied and facilitated, and the human family will 
 be more equally distributed ; races arising in adaptation, and capable 
 of making their environment conformable to their needs. Science will 
 in time teach a production and economy of food to which present pro- 
 cesses will seem rude and barbarous. The resources of the healing 
 art will be immensely increased. But it requires strong faith in the 
 ultimate triumph of good if we venture to hope that the causes of 
 hereditary diseases will decline and die out, that new modes of living, 
 and new political and social developments will eventuate in the growth 
 of stronger and higher human types, which types will become domi- 
 nant, and either transmit robuster and sounder frames, and more 
 powerful faculties, or at least become the objects of that passive imi- 
 tation which has been believed even in historic times to have
 
 FUTUKE DESTINIES OF OUR EACE. 399 
 
 insensibly moulded nations into finer forms, with, grander aims and 
 larger capacities.* One of the strangest and saddest of the necessities 
 of our present degree of civilization will, long before such a state of 
 things, have fallen into desuetude ; for we must call it a necessity in 
 the present state of the world, with its present ways and opinions and 
 practices : I mean that which fills the columns of newspapers with 
 experiments on explosive compounds, that have no other object than 
 the destruction or mutilation of that which this Association takes 
 under its special thought and care. That there should have been 
 co-eval with this society such institutions, for example, as the Ordnance 
 and the Admiralty, will seem in other ages an unintelligible anomaly. 
 Nearly two thousand years ago it was said " si foret in terris rideret 
 Democritus," but how inextinguishable would be the laughter of that 
 resuscitated sage if, after we had commanded his reverent and admiring 
 attention to an exposition of the religion of the Sermon on the Mount, 
 and after we had assured him that this religion had been publicly pro- 
 fessed in these realms for more that a thousand years, we should then 
 take him on one of our grand days to Shoeburyness ! Let us hope 
 that the removal of this woe and disgrace of nationalities may pass 
 away even faster than can grow the developments of our race, and the 
 abatements of the evils which press us down, and call for the efforts 
 of this present Society. Yet they will require long, long years, ages 
 on ages, scecula s&culorum. Many " heroes and poets, and prevailing 
 sages," may have to go to their graves, leaving " the vesture of their 
 majesty to adorn and clothe this naked world," perishing, but 
 bequeathing anticipations and dreams of a better earthly life, and 
 of nobler thought and action 
 
 " Whose forms their mighty spirits did conceive, 
 To be a rule and law to ages that survive." 
 
 Many such will have come and departed before the human destinies 
 have fully culminated. If the thought of so long a delay inclines us 
 to join in the old lingering cry, " Quousque Domine ? " we must call 
 upon our imaginations to conceive the lapse of ages between the 
 existence of the primeval prehistoric tribes, I will not say of the con- 
 temporaries of the cave bear and the mammoth, but even of that 
 reat family whose speech and whose traditions were the germs of the 
 languages and the mythi of the Indo-European nations those strong, 
 
 * See an interesting essay on Physics and Politics, by Walter Bagehot, Esq., 
 Fortnightly Eevieio, July, 18GO.
 
 400 ADDRESS ON HEALTH. 
 
 brave men, who lived before Agamemnon, lost in a long night of 
 oblivion, unknown and unwept because unsung, and only in these 
 latter days descried like ghosts by the penetrating sight of a Max 
 Miiller ; we must imagine the innumerable eras which have revolved 
 between theirs and that of Cuvier, Herschel, Stephenson, Faraday, 
 Brougham, Lyell, and Tennyson. But there is no necessity for pro- 
 jecting an equally slow rate of progress from our present stage of 
 development to that which is to come : for it is in the nature of civili- 
 zation, unless checked by cataclysmal events, to advance in a geometric 
 ratio. And at all events we cannot easily suppose that our earth will 
 have lost her heat or our sun have ceased to burn, before man has 
 experienced and enjoyed the perfect evolution of all those capabilities 
 and faculties with which his Maker has endowed him, before all that 
 is now only potential and latent has come out into form and action. 
 Towards such a consummation the work of this Society is tending. 
 Its success may be but small, and that glorious end may be never 
 reached ; but we may take heart and comfort from the knowledge that 
 its immediate operations are helping to increase the amount of happi- 
 ness and moral good in the world, and to take away some of its evil 
 and its suffering. And so aiming, and so working, we may devoutly 
 say God speed it.
 
 POEMS. 
 
 A PHILOSOPHEE'S PSALM. 
 
 D ! whom I distantly revere, 
 Help me to know and feel thee near ; 
 Awestruck thy works and laws I trace 
 Would that my spirit felt thy grace ! 
 
 In clearest deep-cut characters 
 Nature thy authorship avers ; 
 Her miracles are thy design, 
 Her arts, her inspiration thine. 
 
 That page I see, that text I read, 
 No commentary's gloss I need ; 
 A finer, subtler force impart, 
 Writing thy law upon my heart. 
 
 Oft have I gazed around and mused, 
 Seeing thee everywhere diffused, 
 Within, without, below, above, 
 Yast cirdumflux of pow'er and love. 
 
 But yet not mine thy love I call, 
 Not mine, if but a part of All ; 
 The fly, the flower, the worm, the clod, 
 These all are circumfused with God. 
 2 D
 
 402 POEMS. 
 
 A voice my spirit's depths within 
 Cries, " Surely I am more akin 
 Atom of man's divinity, 
 I claim with God affinity ! " 
 
 Nor claim I only as a man, 
 Or one of Japhet's lordly clan, 
 But from my individual soul, 
 The oneness of my personal whole. 
 
 The stars that gem the vault of night, 
 Make up one universe of light ; 
 But not the less each several star 
 Shines separate and singular. 
 
 But higher far my claims aspire 
 Than orbs of gross material fire ; 
 A microcosm in me lies, 
 Embracing all the entities, 
 
 In worlds beneath, above, around, 
 
 From Heaven's high pole to earth's profound 
 
 I fathom seas, I measure suns, 
 
 And count how fast their radiance runs : 
 
 And all that has been, on my brain 
 By History's pen is written plain ; 
 And all that might be, Verse makes mine, 
 Singing in sweet notes sibylline : 
 
 And all that's seized by eager sense, 
 Or held by strong intelligence, 
 Is mine, with many a mystery 
 Laid bare by new philosophy. 
 
 Vain boast ! This lore, oh Lord, I find 
 Thrown on the mirror of my mind: 
 A mirror moulded by thy skill, 
 \Vliich thou canst blur or break at will.
 
 VERSES IN THE VALE OF BEUDGELERT. 403 
 
 Help me to learn thy better lore ! 
 For this I'd fain all else ignore ; 
 That highest wisdom make thou mine 
 To know no other will than thine ; 
 
 To see in Christ thy Godhead given 
 For man to mark twixt earth and heaven, 
 His faith transcending petty creeds, 
 And love that lived in loving deeds. 
 
 That life when man can imitate, 
 
 He'll triumph over Time and Fate ; 
 
 And seeing sin and hatred driven 
 
 From earth, find earth transformed to Heaven. 
 
 VERSES 
 
 IN THE VALE OF BEDDGELEUT. 
 
 TIME was and for that time full oft I yearn, 
 
 When sights and sounds which cheered or soothed my soul 
 
 In many a lyric vision would return, 
 In many a tuneful echo backward roll. 
 
 Not shattered was my lamp ;* its flame unfanned 
 Waxed dim, for other cares compelled my will : 
 
 Not broken was my lute ; only the hand 
 
 That woke its chords hath lost its little skill. 
 
 Ah, happy days I Ah, happy dreamful time ! 
 
 When all the world of sense was steeped in hues 
 Caught from Imagination's airy clime, 
 
 Then fixed for ever by the faithful Muse. 
 
 * Alluding to Shelley's well-kuowu lines: 
 " When the lump is shattered."'
 
 POEMS. 
 
 God's will be done ! He gives He takes again I 
 His gifts I would resign without a sigli ; 
 
 I would not weep o'er Fancy's faded reign, 
 Nor mourn my long-lost spells of poesy ; 
 
 Could I but feel my reason's eyesight clearer, 
 My will less warped or won by fond desire, 
 
 The good of others, not mine own, grown dearer, 
 My faith made firmer and my hope set higher. 
 
 God grant these gifts! so shall I then behold 
 Thy world in truer light, a light from Thee ! 
 
 Fairer than Fancy's feigning words e'er told, 
 And heralding the world that is to be ! 
 
 SHADOWS. 
 
 OH the shadows the beautiful shadows, 
 Floating far o'er the hills away ; 
 
 As over the sky 
 
 The light clouds fly, 
 So o'er the mountains wander they. 
 
 Oh the shadows the beautiful shadows, 
 Sleeping soft on the meadows green ; 
 
 Fair are the flowers 
 
 In sunbright bowers, 
 But fairer the flowers those shades between ! 
 
 Oh the shadows the beautiful shadows, 
 Dancing light on the ocean spray ; 
 
 Changing each wave 
 
 From gay to grave, 
 Like the frowning smiles of a child at play.
 
 SHADOWS. 4(),"i 
 
 Oh the shadows the beautiful shadows, 
 Sinking deep in the moonlit late; 
 Where the mountains seeni 
 As if view'd in a dream, 
 
 And a world of purer beauty make. 
 
 Oh the shadows the beautiful shadows, 
 
 In the world without and the world within; 
 For joy may borrow 
 A charm from sorrow, 
 And charity smile on repentant sin. 
 
 Oh the shadows the beautiful shadows, 
 Falling soft on the dazzled vision ; 
 
 When the tender thought, 
 
 By memory brought, 
 Tempers the glare of hopes Elysian. 
 
 And there are shadows merciful shadows, 
 Dropping like balm on the bleeding heart 
 
 When first it knows 
 
 That love's flame glows 
 Stronger and purer when joys depart. 
 
 Then bless the shadows the beautiful shadows 
 And take this thought as you gaze abroad ; 
 
 That in heaven and earth 
 
 Shades owe their birth 
 To Light and Light is the Shadow of God.* 
 
 * Like umbra Dei an old Platonic notion.
 
 4(11'. POEMS. 
 
 THE BEOTHEES. 
 
 [The elder fell in the first onset at the battle of the Alma ; the 
 the younger died of cholera, one month afterwards, before 
 Sebastopol.] 
 
 I. 
 
 SLEEP on ! sleep on ! ye beautiful and brave ! 
 
 Where late the cannon's boom 
 
 Thunder' d its voice of doom ; 
 
 Where late your charging cry 
 
 Eose o'er the rattling musquetry; 
 All now is still, save Alma's rippling wave ; 
 Sleep on ! sleep on ! ye beautiful and brave. 
 
 II. 
 
 Soon was thy warfare ended, thou young chief ! 
 
 No weary, fitful story 
 
 Of years of toil for hours of glory ; 
 
 From off that field, thy first and last, 
 
 Thou at one bound hast pass'd 
 To fame ! Ah, Fame, thou cheerest not our grief ; 
 Pale are the brows and cold, where twines thy laurel-leaf. 
 
 in. 
 
 They saw Death beckon from the fierce hill-side, 
 
 As by the camp-fires' light 
 
 They watch'd that dreary night; 
 
 But when the morning broke 
 
 On a hundred batteries' blaze and smoke, 
 AVith bounding hearts they clear 'd the shot-lash' d tide, 
 Sprang at the cannon's throat, and wrestling died.
 
 THE BROTHERS. 407 
 
 IV. 
 
 Sleep ! calmly sleep ! ye beautiful and brave ! 
 
 By sacred lips the words are said, 
 
 Which soothe the living, bless the dead ; 
 
 Heroes are buried where they fall, 
 
 No funeral pomp or pall, 
 
 A warrior's cloak is all; 
 With this a brother in true soldier's grave 
 Folds the lov'd form he would have died to save. 
 
 Y. 
 
 Sleeps now that brother, too yet sleeps not there r 
 
 cruel, fatal Chersonese ! 
 
 Insatiate War! Must fell Disease 
 
 With Slaughter join to feed 
 
 Thy ever-growning greed ? 
 The siege drags on ; valour in vain may dare ; 
 Weapons are mould'ring in the sickly air; 
 Beckless of shot and shell, ev'n lightest hearts despair. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Past is your pain and peril : sleep, ye brave ! 
 
 Glory is yours, and rest! 
 
 But many a gentle breast 
 
 Shall shudder at your tale, 
 
 Many a blooming cheek grow pale; 
 While Faith shall turn bereav'd eyes from the grave, 
 To Him who only taketh what He gave, 
 Whose Holiest came to suffer and to save ; 
 In Him sleep on! ye beautiful and brave!
 
 408 POEMS. 
 
 ON A PICTURE BY NICHOLAS POUSSIN. 
 Et ego in Arcadia vixi. 
 
 AH, happy youths ! ah, happy maid ! 
 
 Take present pleasure while ye may ; 
 Laugh, dance, and sing in sunny glade ; 
 
 Your limbs are light, your hearts are gay ; 
 
 Ye little think there comes a day 
 ('Twill come to you, it came to me,) 
 
 When love and life shall pass away, 
 
 I too once dwelt in Arcady ! 
 
 Or listless He by yonder stream, 
 
 And muse and watch the ripples play : 
 Or note their noiseless flow and deem 
 
 That life thus gently glides away, 
 
 That^love is but a sunny ray 
 To make our years go joyously ; 
 
 I knew that stream, I too could dream, 
 
 I too once dwelt in Arcady ! 
 
 Sing, shepherds, sing ! sweet lady, listen ! 
 
 Sing to the music of the rill ! 
 "With happy tears her bright eyes glisten; 
 
 For as each pause the echoes fill, 
 
 TheyTwaft her name from hill to hill. 
 So listened my lost love to me ; 
 
 The voice she loved has long been still,- 
 
 I too once dwelt in Arcady!
 
 PROMETHEUS. 409 
 
 PROMETHEUS. 
 
 The lamented Sm JAMES SIMPSON icas the subject of anyina 
 
 . I. 
 " AH ine ! alas ! pain, pain, ever, for ever ! " 
 
 So groaned upon his rock that Titan good, 
 
 Who by his brave and loving hardihood 
 "Was to weak man of priceless boons the giver, 
 Which e'en the supreme tyrant could not sever 
 
 From us, once given; we own him in our food 
 
 And in our blazing hearth's beatitude; 
 Yet still his cry was " pain, ever, for ever ! " 
 Shall we a later, harder doom rehearse? 
 
 One came whose art men's dread of art repressed; 
 
 Mangled and writhing limbs he lulled to rest, 
 And stingless left the old Semitic curse ; 
 Him, too, for these blest gifts did Zeus amerce ? 
 
 He, too, had vultures tearing at his breast. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hush! Pagan plaints, our Titan is unbound, 
 The cruel beak and talons scared away ; 
 As once upon his mother's lap he lay, 
 
 So rests his head august on holy ground ; 
 
 Spells stronger than his own his pangs have found ; 
 He hears no clamour of polemic fray, 
 Nor recks he what unthankful men may say ; 
 
 Nothing can vex him in that peace profound. 
 
 And where his loving soul, his genius bold? 
 In slumber? or already sent abroad 
 
 On angel's wings and works, as some men hold? 
 Or waiting Evolution's change, unawed? 
 
 All is a mystery, as Saiijt Paul has told, 
 
 Saying: "Your life is hid with Christ in God." 
 
 March 13, 1870.
 
 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 FEOM MIMNEEMUS. 
 
 T/c Si /3/oe; 
 
 HAT'S Life or Pleasure wanting Aphrodite ? 
 
 to the goldhaired goddess cold am I, 
 When love and tender gifts no more delight me, 
 
 Nor stolen dalliance, then I fain would die. 
 Ah fair and lovely bloom the flowers of youth ; 
 
 On men and maids they beautifully smile ; 
 But soon comes doleful eld who void of ruth 
 
 Indifferently afflicts the fair and vile; 
 Then cares wear out the heart ; old eyes forlorn 
 
 Scarce reck the very sunshine to behold ; 
 Unloved by youths, of every maid the scorn, 
 Such the hard lot God lays upon the old. 
 
 Zeus to Tithonus gave a grievous ill, 
 Undying age, than death more horrible.
 
 FROM TIIEOGNIS. 411 
 
 FKOM THEOGNIS. 
 
 MOWCTCU KOI 
 
 MUSES and Graces ! daughters of high Jove, 
 When erst ye left your glorious seats above 
 To bless the bridal of that wondrous pair, 
 Cadmus and Harmonia fair, 
 Your voices pealed a divine air : 
 " What is good and fair 
 Shall ever be our care;" 
 Thus the burthen of it rang, 
 " That shall never be our care 
 Which is neither good nor fair" 
 Such were the words your lips immortal sang. 
 
 Let us in life's delights serenely share, 
 While yet 'tis ours to feel how sweet they are; 
 Swift as a dream our glorious youth goes by, 
 Fleet as the coursers that to battle fly, 
 Bearing the chief with quivering spear in hand, 
 Madly careering o'er the rich cornland. 
 
 atypovtg avOpuTTOi KCU v/jTTtot. 
 
 Vain thoughtless men ! lament ye death's fell power ? 
 Yet shed no tears o'er youth's decaying flower? 
 
 o juoi lywv Tj/Brjc- 
 
 Ah me ! my youth ! alas, for eld's dark day ! 
 This comes apace, while that fleets fast away.
 
 412 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 FROM THE GREEK ANTHOLOGY. 
 
 ov JU/JLOV 'oXX' \\'i$av. 
 
 POOR Cloariste loosed lier virgin zone 
 
 Not for her wedding, but for Acheron ; 
 
 'Twas but last eve the merry pipes were swelling, 
 
 And dancing footsteps thrill' d the festive dwelling ; 
 
 Morn changed those notes for wailings loud and long, 
 
 And dirges drown'd the hymeneal song; 
 
 Alas ! the very torches meant to wave 
 
 Around her bridal couch now light her to the grave ! 
 
 Straight is the way to Acheron, 
 Whether the spirit's race is run 
 From Athens or from Meroe : 
 Weep not, far off from home to die ; 
 The wind doth blow in every sky, 
 That wafts us to that doleful sea. 
 
 Thou art not dead, my Prote ! thou art flown 
 To a far country better than our own ; 
 Thy home is now an Island of the Blest; 
 There 'mid Elysian meadows take thy rest : 
 Or lightly trip along the flowery glade 
 Rich with the asphodels that never fade I 
 Nor -pain, nor cold, nor toil shall vex thee more, 
 Nor thirst, nor hunger on that happy shore; 
 Nor longings vain (now that blest life is won) 
 For such poor days as mortals here drag on; 
 To thee for aye a blameless life is given, 
 In the pure light of ever-present Heaven! 
 
 Here lapped in hallowed slumber Saon lies, 
 Asleep, not dead ; a good man never dies.
 
 FROM THE G1JKKK ANTHOLOGY. 41 
 
 ovKtn 
 
 Orpheus ! no more the rocks, the woods no more. 
 Thy strains shall lure ; no more the savage herds, 
 Nor hail, nor driving clouds, nor tempest's roar, 
 Nor chafing billows list thy lulling words ; 
 For thou art dead : and all the muses mourn, 
 But most Calliope, thy mother dear. 
 Shall we then, reft of sous, lament forlorn, 
 When e'en the Gods must for their offspring fear 
 
 at rpiaaa TTOTC 
 
 One day three girls were casting lots in play, 
 
 Which first to Acheron should take her way ; 
 
 Thrice with their sportive hands they threw, and thrice 
 
 To the same hand returned the fateful dice ; 
 
 The maiden laughed when thus her doom was told: 
 
 Alas ! that moment from the roof she rolled I- 
 
 So sure is Fate whene'er it bringeth bale, 
 
 While prayers and vows for bliss must ever fail. 
 
 {nfrncopbv Trapa T)';i'3e. 
 
 Come sit you down beneath this towering tree, 
 Whose rustling leaves sing to the zephyr's call : 
 My pipe shall join the streamlet's melody, 
 And slumber on your charmed eyelids fall. 
 
 jv/J.vriv fcTSe TlaptQ ;. 
 
 Three have seen my beauty zoneless, 
 Three I know, but only these, 
 Anchises, Paris, and Adonis ; 
 But when didst thou, Praxiteles ? 
 
 IlaXXu? KOI KjOOiu'Sao. 
 
 Pallas and Jove's haughty bride 
 
 Came down to see our Cnidian Venus; 
 
 " We wronged the Phrygian boy," they cried, 
 
 " Not falsely did he judge between us ! "
 
 414 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 FROM HOE ACE. 
 
 CAKM. I. 38. 
 
 BOY, I dislike this Persian frippery, 
 
 These linden-twisted chaplets please not rne, 
 
 Pray take no pains to find for me where grows 
 
 The latest lingering rose. 
 
 Twine not the myrtle spray with studious care, 
 Plain myrtle leaves we both may fitly wear, 
 
 Thou, as my page, I as I sip iny wine 
 
 Beneath my thick-leaved vine. 
 
 CAKM. II. 3. 
 
 Ix trouble keep your courage high 
 And calm, but yet in happier fate 
 Be not with rapture too elate 
 
 For one day, Dellius, you must die. 
 
 Whether through dreary days you pine, 
 Or on the far sequestered grass 
 Luxurious holidays you pass 
 
 Quaffing your old Falernian wine : 
 
 I know the spot by poplar pale 
 And lofty pines a friendly shade 
 "With intertwining branches made ; 
 
 And hard by struggles through the vale 
 
 The winding water: there we'll set 
 
 Wines and rich perfumes ; boys shall bring 
 Roses too briefly blossoming ; 
 
 While Youth and Fortune smile, while yet 
 
 Their dark threads spin the sisters three. 
 Ah me ! your parks, your pleasant home 
 Washed by the Tiber's tawny foam 
 
 You'll leave ; and all your wealth shall be 
 
 But for your heir. If rich and one 
 Of Inachus' old line and name,
 
 FROM HORACE. 415 
 
 Or poor and basest born, the same 
 
 Your doom to Orcus pitying none. 
 
 To the grim ferry all must go ; 
 Our lots are cast into one urn, 
 And soon or late comes out our turn 
 
 For endless banishment below. 
 
 CARM. II. 9. 
 
 NOT ceaselessly the raincloud pours 
 Down on the tangled fields, nor yet 
 Do squalls the Caspian always fret, 
 
 Nor always on Armenian shores 
 
 .Stands the stiff ice, nor all the year 
 Heel the stout oaks to winds that rave 
 Round Grargan heights, nor ash trees wave 
 
 Their leafless boughs for ever sere. 
 
 Why then lament with endless lay 
 Of Mystes reft ? the star of eve 
 Shines on your grief, and still you grieve 
 
 When Hesper flies the hurrying day. 
 
 Not for his dear Antilochus 
 
 Mourned the old sire through livelong years 
 Nor Phrygian sisters poured their tears 
 
 Incessant o'er young Troilus. 
 
 Cease then, my Valgius, chaunt not ever 
 
 Those tender plaints ; come change the string- 
 Of Caesar's latest triumphs sing, 
 
 Niphates, and the Median river 
 
 Bound like the rest with Roman chains 
 And taught with tamer tide to flow, 
 And the Gelonians forced to know 
 
 Their bounds and ride o'er narrower plains. 
 
 CABM: H. 14. 
 
 An me, my friend: how fast away 
 Fly the fleet years ! no holy spell 
 Time or Time's wrinkles can repel, 
 
 Or Death's resistless march delay.
 
 410 TRANSLATIONS. 
 
 Pile up each day your hecatomb 
 Pluto heeds not ! The giant brood, 
 Vast Geryon, floating many a rood, 
 
 And Tityos writhe in ruthless doom, 
 
 Confined by that grim gulf below; 
 And all who taste of earthly food 
 Must cross that melancholy flood 
 
 Princes and peasants all must go. 
 
 In vain from bloody wars we fly, 
 
 And Hadria's roaring breakers shun : 
 In vain shrink from the autumnal sun 
 
 And south winds breathing balefully ; 
 
 That murky slow meandering river, 
 Cocytus named, we all must view, 
 And Danaus' dishonoured crew, 
 
 And him who heaves the stone for ever : 
 
 Abandoned land and home must be, 
 And your sweet wife; of all your trees 
 None but the hateful cypresses 
 
 May bear their brief lord company ; 
 
 All your Co3cubian hoards your heir, 
 Though guarded by a hundred doors, 
 Shall waste, and stain his gorgeous floors 
 
 With finer wine than pontiffs share. 
 
 FROM LUCRETIUS. 
 
 FOND man, you've had of life your fill,- 
 
 Why not like sated guest 
 Retire with a contented will, 
 
 And safely take your rest? 
 
 FROM MARTIAL. 
 
 TO-MORROW I'll enjoy, you thoughtless say: 
 To-morrow comes too late, enjoy to-day. 
 
 AUKOWSMITH, PRINTKR, QUAY STREET, BRISTOL. 
 
 V